Again Crispinus comes! and yet again,And oft, shall he be summoned to sustainHis dreadful part:—the monster of the times,WithoutONEvirtue to redeem his crimes!Diseased, emaciate, weak in all but lust,5And whom the widow's sweets alone disgust.Avails it, then, in what long colonnadesHe tires his mules? through what extensive gladesHis chair is borne? what vast estates he buys,What splendid domes, that round the Forum rise?10Ah! no—Peace visits not the guilty mind,Least his, who incest to adultery joined,And stained thy priestess, Vesta;—whom, dire fate!The long dark night and living tomb await.Turn we to slighter vices:—yet had these,15In others, Seius, Titius, whom you please,The Censor roused; for what the good would shame,Becomes Crispinus, and is honest fame.But when the actor's person far exceeds,In native loathsomeness, his loathsom'st deeds,20Say, what can satire? For a fish that weighedSix pounds, six thousand sesterces he paid!As those report, who catch, with greedy ear,And magnify the mighty things they hear.Had this expense been meant, with well-timed skill,25To gull some childless dotard of a Will;Or bribe some rich and fashionable fair,Who flaunts it in a close, wide-windowed chair;'Twere worth our praise:—but no such plot was here.'Twas forHIMSELFhe bought a treat so dear!30This, all past gluttony from shame redeems,And even Apicius poor and frugal seems.What! You, Crispinus, brought to Rome, erewhile,Lapt in the rushes of your native Nile,Buy scales, at such a price! you might, I guess,35Have bought the fisherman himself for less;Bought, in some countries, manors at this rate,And, in Apulia, an immense estate!How gorged the emperor, when so dear a fish,Yet, of his cheapest meals, the cheapest dish,40Was guttled down by this impurpled lord,Chief knight, chief parasite, at Cæsar's board,Whom Memphis heard so late, with ceaseless yell,Clamoring through all her streets—"Ho! shads to sell!"PierianMaids, begin;—but, quit your lyres,45The fact I bring no lofty chord requires:Relate it, then, and in the simplest strain,Nor let the poet style youMaids, in vain.When the last Flavius, drunk with fury, toreThe prostrate world, which bled at every pore,50And Rome beheld, in body as in mind,A bald-pate Nero rise, to curse mankind;It chanced, that where the fane of Venus stands,Reared on Ancona's coast by Grecian hands,A turbot, wandering from the Illyrian main,55Fill'd the wide bosom of the bursting seine.Monsters so bulky, from its frozen stream,Mæotis renders to the solar beam,And pours them, fat with a whole winter's ease,Through the bleak Euxine, into warmer seas.60The mighty draught the astonished boatman eyes,And to the Pontiff's table dooms his prize:For who would dare to sell it? who to buy?When the coast swarmed with many a practiced spy,Mud-rakers, prompt to swear the fish had fled65From Cæsar's ponds, ingrate! where long it fed,And thus recaptured, claimed to be restoredTo the dominion of its ancient lord!Nay, if Palphurius may our credit gain,Whatever rare or precious swims the main,70Is forfeit to the crown, and you may seizeThe obnoxious dainty, when and where you please.This point allowed, our wary boatman choseTo give—what, else, he had not failed to lose.Now were the dogstar's sickly fervors o'er,75Earth, pinched with cold, her frozen livery wore;The old began their quartan fits to fear,And wintry blasts deformed the beauteous year,And kept the turbot sweet: yet on he flew,As if the sultry South corruption blew.—80And now the lake, and now the hill he gains,Where Alba, though in ruins, still maintainsThe Trojan fire, which, but for her, were lost,And worships Vesta, though with less of cost.The wondering crowd, that gathered to survey85The enormous fish, and barred the fisher's way,Satiate, at length retires; the gates unfold!—Murmuring, the excluded senators beholdThe envied dainty enter:—On the manTo great Atrides pressed, and thus began.90"This, for a private table far too great,Accept, and sumptuously your Genius treat:Haste to unload your stomach, and devourA turbot, destined to this happy hour.I sought him not;—he marked the toils I set,95And rushed, a willing victim, to my net."Was flattery e'er so rank! yet he grows vain,And his crest rises at the fulsome strain.When, to divine, a mortal power we raise,He looks for no hyperboles in praise.100But when was joy unmixed? no pot is found,Capacious of the turbot's ample round:In this distress, he calls the chiefs of state,At once the objects of his scorn and hate,In whose pale cheeks distrust and doubt appear,105And all a tyrant's friendship breeds of fear.Scarce was the loud Liburnian heard to say,"He sits," ere Pegasus was on his way;Yes:—the new bailiff of the affrighted town,(For what were Præfects more?) had snatched his gown,110And rushed to council: from the ivory chair,He dealt out justice with no common care;But yielded oft to those licentious times,And where he could not punish, winked at crimes.Then old, facetious Crispus tript along,115Of gentle manners, and persuasive tongue:None fitter to advise the lord of all,Had that pernicious pest, whom thus we call,Allowed a friend to soothe his savage mood,And give him counsel, wise at once and good.120But who shall dare this liberty to take,When, every word you hazard, life's at stake?Though but of stormy summers, showery springs—For tyrants' ears, alas! are ticklish things.So did the good old man his tongue restrain;125Nor strove to stem the torrent's force in vain.Not one of those, who, by no fears deterred,Spoke the free soul, and truth to life preferred.He temporized—thus fourscore summers fled,Even in that court, securely, o'er his head.130Next him, appeared Acilius hurrying on,Of equal age—and followed by his son;Who fell, unjustly fell, in early years,A victim to the tyrant's jealous fears:But long ere this were hoary hairs become135A prodigy, among the great, at Rome;Hence, had I rather owe my humble birth,Frail brother of the giant-brood, to earth.Poor youth! in vain the ancient sleight you try;In vain, with frantic air, and ardent eye,140Fling every robe aside, and battle wageWith bears and lions, on the Alban stage.All see the trick: and, spite of Brutus' skill,There are who count him but a driveler still;Since, in his days, it cost no mighty pains145To outwit a prince, with much more beard than brains.Rubrius, though not, like these, of noble race,Followed with equal terror in his face;And, laboring with a crime too foul to name,More, than the pathic satirist, lost to shame.150Montanus' belly next, and next appearedThe legs, on which that monstrous pile was reared.Crispinus followed, daubed with more perfume,Thus early! than two funerals consume.Then bloodier Pompey, practiced to betray,155And hesitate the noblest lives away.Then Fuscus, who in studious pomp at home,Planned future triumphs for the Arms of Rome.Blind to the event! those arms, a different fate,Inglorious wounds, and Dacian vultures, wait.160Last, sly Veiento with Catullus came,Deadly Catullus, who, at beauty's nameTook fire, although unseen: a wretch, whose crimesStruck with amaze even those prodigious times.A base, blind parasite, a murderous lord,165From the bridge-end raised to the council-board;Yet fitter still to dog the traveler's heels,And whine for alms to the descending wheels!None dwelt so largely on the turbot's size,Or raised with such applause his wondering eyes;170But to the left (O, treacherous want of sight)He poured his praise;—the fish was on the right!Thus would he at the fencer's matches sit,And shout with rapture, at some fancied hit;And thus applaud the stage-machinery, where175The youths were rapt aloft, and lost in air.Nor fell Veiento short:—as if possestWith all Bellona's rage, his laboring breastBurst forth in prophecy; "I see, I seeThe omens of some glorious victory!180Some powerful monarch captured!—lo, he rears,Horrent on every side, his pointed spears!Arviragus hurled from the British car:The fish is foreign, foreign is the war."Proceed, great seer, and what remains untold,185The turbot's age and country, next unfold;So shall your lord his fortunes better know,And where the conquest waits and who the foe.The emperor now the important question put,"How say ye, Fathers,SHALL THE FISH BE CUT?"190"O, far be that disgrace," Montanus cries;"No, let a pot be formed, of amplest size,Within whose slender sides the fish, dread sire,May spread his vast circumference entire!Bring, bring the tempered clay, and let it feel195The quick gyrations of the plastic wheel:—But, Cæsar, thus forewarned, make no campaign,Unless your potters follow in your train!"Montanus ended; all approved the plan,And all, the speech, so worthy of the man!200Versed in the old court luxury, he knewThe feasts of Nero, and his midnight crew;Where oft, when potent draughts had fired the brain,The jaded taste was spurred to gorge again.—And, in my time, none understood so well205The science of good eating: he could tell,At the first relish, if his oysters fedOn the Rutupian, or the Lucrine bed;And from a crab, or lobster's color, nameThe country, nay, the district, whence it came.210Here closed the solemn farce. The Fathers rise,And each, submissive, from the presence hies:—Pale, trembling wretches, whom the chief, in sport,Had dragged, astonished, to the Alban court;As if the stern Sicambri were in arms,215Or the fierce Catti threatened new alarms;As if ill news by flying posts had come,And gathering nations sought the fall of Rome!O! that such scenes (disgraceful at the most)Had all those years of cruelty engrost,220Through which his rage pursued the great and good,Unchecked, while vengeance slumbered o'er their blood!And yet he fell!—for when he changed his game,And first grew dreadful to the vulgar name,They seized the murderer, drenched with Lamian gore,225And hurled him, headlong, to the infernal shore!
Again Crispinus comes! and yet again,And oft, shall he be summoned to sustainHis dreadful part:—the monster of the times,WithoutONEvirtue to redeem his crimes!Diseased, emaciate, weak in all but lust,5And whom the widow's sweets alone disgust.Avails it, then, in what long colonnadesHe tires his mules? through what extensive gladesHis chair is borne? what vast estates he buys,What splendid domes, that round the Forum rise?10Ah! no—Peace visits not the guilty mind,Least his, who incest to adultery joined,And stained thy priestess, Vesta;—whom, dire fate!The long dark night and living tomb await.Turn we to slighter vices:—yet had these,15In others, Seius, Titius, whom you please,The Censor roused; for what the good would shame,Becomes Crispinus, and is honest fame.But when the actor's person far exceeds,In native loathsomeness, his loathsom'st deeds,20Say, what can satire? For a fish that weighedSix pounds, six thousand sesterces he paid!As those report, who catch, with greedy ear,And magnify the mighty things they hear.Had this expense been meant, with well-timed skill,25To gull some childless dotard of a Will;Or bribe some rich and fashionable fair,Who flaunts it in a close, wide-windowed chair;'Twere worth our praise:—but no such plot was here.'Twas forHIMSELFhe bought a treat so dear!30This, all past gluttony from shame redeems,And even Apicius poor and frugal seems.What! You, Crispinus, brought to Rome, erewhile,Lapt in the rushes of your native Nile,Buy scales, at such a price! you might, I guess,35Have bought the fisherman himself for less;Bought, in some countries, manors at this rate,And, in Apulia, an immense estate!How gorged the emperor, when so dear a fish,Yet, of his cheapest meals, the cheapest dish,40Was guttled down by this impurpled lord,Chief knight, chief parasite, at Cæsar's board,Whom Memphis heard so late, with ceaseless yell,Clamoring through all her streets—"Ho! shads to sell!"PierianMaids, begin;—but, quit your lyres,45The fact I bring no lofty chord requires:Relate it, then, and in the simplest strain,Nor let the poet style youMaids, in vain.When the last Flavius, drunk with fury, toreThe prostrate world, which bled at every pore,50And Rome beheld, in body as in mind,A bald-pate Nero rise, to curse mankind;It chanced, that where the fane of Venus stands,Reared on Ancona's coast by Grecian hands,A turbot, wandering from the Illyrian main,55Fill'd the wide bosom of the bursting seine.Monsters so bulky, from its frozen stream,Mæotis renders to the solar beam,And pours them, fat with a whole winter's ease,Through the bleak Euxine, into warmer seas.60The mighty draught the astonished boatman eyes,And to the Pontiff's table dooms his prize:For who would dare to sell it? who to buy?When the coast swarmed with many a practiced spy,Mud-rakers, prompt to swear the fish had fled65From Cæsar's ponds, ingrate! where long it fed,And thus recaptured, claimed to be restoredTo the dominion of its ancient lord!Nay, if Palphurius may our credit gain,Whatever rare or precious swims the main,70Is forfeit to the crown, and you may seizeThe obnoxious dainty, when and where you please.This point allowed, our wary boatman choseTo give—what, else, he had not failed to lose.Now were the dogstar's sickly fervors o'er,75Earth, pinched with cold, her frozen livery wore;The old began their quartan fits to fear,And wintry blasts deformed the beauteous year,And kept the turbot sweet: yet on he flew,As if the sultry South corruption blew.—80And now the lake, and now the hill he gains,Where Alba, though in ruins, still maintainsThe Trojan fire, which, but for her, were lost,And worships Vesta, though with less of cost.The wondering crowd, that gathered to survey85The enormous fish, and barred the fisher's way,Satiate, at length retires; the gates unfold!—Murmuring, the excluded senators beholdThe envied dainty enter:—On the manTo great Atrides pressed, and thus began.90"This, for a private table far too great,Accept, and sumptuously your Genius treat:Haste to unload your stomach, and devourA turbot, destined to this happy hour.I sought him not;—he marked the toils I set,95And rushed, a willing victim, to my net."Was flattery e'er so rank! yet he grows vain,And his crest rises at the fulsome strain.When, to divine, a mortal power we raise,He looks for no hyperboles in praise.100But when was joy unmixed? no pot is found,Capacious of the turbot's ample round:In this distress, he calls the chiefs of state,At once the objects of his scorn and hate,In whose pale cheeks distrust and doubt appear,105And all a tyrant's friendship breeds of fear.Scarce was the loud Liburnian heard to say,"He sits," ere Pegasus was on his way;Yes:—the new bailiff of the affrighted town,(For what were Præfects more?) had snatched his gown,110And rushed to council: from the ivory chair,He dealt out justice with no common care;But yielded oft to those licentious times,And where he could not punish, winked at crimes.Then old, facetious Crispus tript along,115Of gentle manners, and persuasive tongue:None fitter to advise the lord of all,Had that pernicious pest, whom thus we call,Allowed a friend to soothe his savage mood,And give him counsel, wise at once and good.120But who shall dare this liberty to take,When, every word you hazard, life's at stake?Though but of stormy summers, showery springs—For tyrants' ears, alas! are ticklish things.So did the good old man his tongue restrain;125Nor strove to stem the torrent's force in vain.Not one of those, who, by no fears deterred,Spoke the free soul, and truth to life preferred.He temporized—thus fourscore summers fled,Even in that court, securely, o'er his head.130Next him, appeared Acilius hurrying on,Of equal age—and followed by his son;Who fell, unjustly fell, in early years,A victim to the tyrant's jealous fears:But long ere this were hoary hairs become135A prodigy, among the great, at Rome;Hence, had I rather owe my humble birth,Frail brother of the giant-brood, to earth.Poor youth! in vain the ancient sleight you try;In vain, with frantic air, and ardent eye,140Fling every robe aside, and battle wageWith bears and lions, on the Alban stage.All see the trick: and, spite of Brutus' skill,There are who count him but a driveler still;Since, in his days, it cost no mighty pains145To outwit a prince, with much more beard than brains.Rubrius, though not, like these, of noble race,Followed with equal terror in his face;And, laboring with a crime too foul to name,More, than the pathic satirist, lost to shame.150Montanus' belly next, and next appearedThe legs, on which that monstrous pile was reared.Crispinus followed, daubed with more perfume,Thus early! than two funerals consume.Then bloodier Pompey, practiced to betray,155And hesitate the noblest lives away.Then Fuscus, who in studious pomp at home,Planned future triumphs for the Arms of Rome.Blind to the event! those arms, a different fate,Inglorious wounds, and Dacian vultures, wait.160Last, sly Veiento with Catullus came,Deadly Catullus, who, at beauty's nameTook fire, although unseen: a wretch, whose crimesStruck with amaze even those prodigious times.A base, blind parasite, a murderous lord,165From the bridge-end raised to the council-board;Yet fitter still to dog the traveler's heels,And whine for alms to the descending wheels!None dwelt so largely on the turbot's size,Or raised with such applause his wondering eyes;170But to the left (O, treacherous want of sight)He poured his praise;—the fish was on the right!Thus would he at the fencer's matches sit,And shout with rapture, at some fancied hit;And thus applaud the stage-machinery, where175The youths were rapt aloft, and lost in air.Nor fell Veiento short:—as if possestWith all Bellona's rage, his laboring breastBurst forth in prophecy; "I see, I seeThe omens of some glorious victory!180Some powerful monarch captured!—lo, he rears,Horrent on every side, his pointed spears!Arviragus hurled from the British car:The fish is foreign, foreign is the war."Proceed, great seer, and what remains untold,185The turbot's age and country, next unfold;So shall your lord his fortunes better know,And where the conquest waits and who the foe.The emperor now the important question put,"How say ye, Fathers,SHALL THE FISH BE CUT?"190"O, far be that disgrace," Montanus cries;"No, let a pot be formed, of amplest size,Within whose slender sides the fish, dread sire,May spread his vast circumference entire!Bring, bring the tempered clay, and let it feel195The quick gyrations of the plastic wheel:—But, Cæsar, thus forewarned, make no campaign,Unless your potters follow in your train!"Montanus ended; all approved the plan,And all, the speech, so worthy of the man!200Versed in the old court luxury, he knewThe feasts of Nero, and his midnight crew;Where oft, when potent draughts had fired the brain,The jaded taste was spurred to gorge again.—And, in my time, none understood so well205The science of good eating: he could tell,At the first relish, if his oysters fedOn the Rutupian, or the Lucrine bed;And from a crab, or lobster's color, nameThe country, nay, the district, whence it came.210Here closed the solemn farce. The Fathers rise,And each, submissive, from the presence hies:—Pale, trembling wretches, whom the chief, in sport,Had dragged, astonished, to the Alban court;As if the stern Sicambri were in arms,215Or the fierce Catti threatened new alarms;As if ill news by flying posts had come,And gathering nations sought the fall of Rome!O! that such scenes (disgraceful at the most)Had all those years of cruelty engrost,220Through which his rage pursued the great and good,Unchecked, while vengeance slumbered o'er their blood!And yet he fell!—for when he changed his game,And first grew dreadful to the vulgar name,They seized the murderer, drenched with Lamian gore,225And hurled him, headlong, to the infernal shore!
If—by reiterated scorn made bold,Your mind can still its shameless tenor hold,Still think the greatest blessing earth can give,Is, solely at another's cost to live;If—you can brook, what Galba would have spurned,5And mean Sarmentus with a frown returned,At Cæsar's haughty board, dependents both,I scarce would take your evidence on oath.The belly's fed with little cost: yet grantYou should, unhappily, that little want,10Some vacant bridge might surely still be found,Some highway side; where, groveling on the ground,Your shivering limbs compassion's sigh might wake,And gain an alms for "Charity's sweet sake!"What! can a meal, thus sauced, deserve your care?15Is hunger so importunate? whenTHERE,There, in your tattered rug, you may, my friend,On casual scraps more honestly depend;With chattering teeth toil o'er your wretched treat,And gnaw the crusts, which dogs refuse to eat!—20For, first, of this be sure: whene'er your lordThinks proper to invite you to his board,He pays, or thinks he pays, the total sumOf all your pains, past, present, and to come.Behold the meed of servitude! the great25Reward their humble followers with a treat,And count it current coin:—they count it such,And, though it be but little, think it much.If, after two long months, he condescendTo waste a thought upon an humble friend,30Reminded by a vacant seat, and write,"You, Master Trebius, sup with me to-night,"'Tis rapture all! Go now, supremely blest,Enjoy the meed for which you broke your rest,And, loose and slipshod, ran your vows to pay,35What time the fading stars announced the day;Or at that earlier hour, when, with slow roll,Thy frozen wain, Boötes, turned the pole;Yet trembling, lest the levee should be o'er,And the full court retiring from the door!40And what a meal at last! such ropy wine,As wool, which takes all liquids, would decline;Hot, heady lees, to fire the wretched guests,And turn them all to Corybants, or beasts.—At first, with sneers and sarcasms, they engage,45Then hurl the jugs around, with mutual rage;Or, stung to madness by the household train,With coarse stone pots a desperate fight maintain;While streams of blood in smoking torrents flow,And my lord smiles to see the battle glow!50Not such his beverage: he enjoys the juiceOf ancient days, when beards were yet in use,Pressed in the Social War!—but will not sendOne cordial drop, to cheer a fainting friend.To-morrow, he will change, and, haply, fill55The mellow vintage of the Alban hill,Or Setian; wines, which can not now be known,So much the mould of age has overgrownThe district, and the date; such generous bowls,As Thrasea and Helvidius, patriot souls!60While crowned with flowers, in sacred pomp, they lay,ToFreedomquaffed, on Brutus' natal day.Before your patron, cups of price are placed,Amber and gold, with rows of beryls graced:Cups, you can only at a distance view,65And never trusted to such guests as you!Or, if they be—a faithful slave attends,To count the gems, and watch your fingers' ends.You'll pardon him; but lo! a jasper there,Of matchless worth, which justifies his care:70For Virro, like his brother peers, of late,Has stripped his fingers to adorn his plate;And jewels now emblaze the festive board,}Which decked with nobler grace the hero's sword,}Whom Dido prized, above the Libyan lord.}75From such he drinks: to you the slaves allotThe Beneventine cobbler's four-lugged pot,A fragment, a mere shard, of little worth,But to be trucked for matches—and so forth.If Virro's veins with indigestion glow,80They bring him water cooled in Scythian snow:What! did I late complain a different wineFell to thy share? A different water's thine!Getulian slaves your vile potations pour,Or the coarse paws of some huge, raw-boned Moor,85Whose hideous form the stoutest would affray,If met, by moonlight, near the Latian way:On him a youth, the flower of Asia, waits,So dearly purchased, that the joint estatesOf Tullus, Ancus, would not yield the sum,90Nor all the wealth—of all the kings of Rome!Bear this in mind; and when the cup you need,Look to your own Getulian Ganymede;A page who cost so much, will ne'er, be sure,Come at your beck: he heeds not, he, the poor;95But, of his youth and beauty justly vain,Trips by them, with indifference and disdain.If called, he hears not, or, with rage inflamed—Indignant, that his services are claimedBy an old client, who, ye gods! commands,100And sits at ease, while his superior stands!Such proud, audacious minions swarm in Rome,And trample on the poor, where'er they come.Mark with what insolence another thrustsBefore your plate th' impenetrable crusts,105Black mouldy fragments, which defy the saw,The mere despair of every aching jaw!While manchets, of the finest flour, are setBefore your lord; but be you mindful, yet,And taste not, touch not: of the pantler stand110In trembling awe, and check your desperate hand—Yet, should you dare—a slave springs forth, to wrestThe sacred morsel from you. "Saucy guest,"He frowns, and mutters, "wilt thou ne'er divineWhat's for thy patron's tooth, and what for thine?115Never take notice from what tray thou'rt fed,Nor know the color of thy proper bread?"Was it for this, the baffled client cries,The tears indignant starting from his eyes,Was it for this I left my wife ere day,120And up the bleak Esquilian urged my way,While the wind howled, the hail-storm beat amain,And my cloak smoked beneath the driving rain!But lo, a lobster, introduced in state,Stretches, enormous, o'er the bending plate;125Proud of a length of tail, he seems to eyeThe humbler guests with scorn, as, towering by,He takes the place of honor at the board,And crowned with costly pickles, greets his lord!A crab is yours, ill garnished and ill fed,130With half an egg—a supper for the dead!He pours Venafran oil upon his fish,While the stale coleworts, in your wooden dish,Stink of the lamp; for such to you is thrown,Such rancid grease, as Afric sends to town;135So strong, that when her factors seek the bath,All wind, and all avoid, the noisome path;So pestilent! that her own serpents flyThe horrid stench, or meet it but to die.See! a sur-mullet now before him set,140From Corsica, or isles more distant yet,Brought post to Rome; since Ostia's shores no moreSupply the insatiate glutton, as of yore,Thinned by the net, whose everlasting throwAllows no Tuscan fish in peace to grow.145Still luxury yawns, unfilled; the nations rise,And ransack all their coasts for fresh supplies:Thence come your presents; thence, as rumor tells,The dainties Lenas buys, Aurelia sells.A lamprey next, from the Sicilian straits,150Of more than common size, on Virro waits—For oft as Auster seeks his cave, and flingsThe cumbrous moisture from his dripping wings,Forth flies the daring fisher, lured by gain,While rocks oppose, and whirlpools threat in vain.155To you an eel is brought, whose slender makeSpeaks him a famished cousin to the snake;Or some frost-bitten pike, who, day by day,Through half the city's ordure sucked his way!Would Virro deign to hear me, I could give160A few brief hints:—We look not to receiveWhat Seneca, what Cotta used to send,What the good Piso, to an humble friend:—For bounty once preferred a fairer claim,Than birth or power, to honorable fame:165No; all we ask (and you may this afford)Is, simply, civil treatment at your board;Indulge us here; and be, like numbers more,Rich to yourself, to your dependents poor!Vain hope! Near him a goose's liver lies;170A capon, equal to a goose in size;A boar, too, smokes, like that which fell, of old,By the famed hero with the locks of gold.Last, if the spring its genial influence shed,And welcome thunders call them from their bed,175Large mushrooms enter; ravished with their size,"O Libya, keep thy grain!" Alledius cries,"And bid thy oxen to their stalls retreat,Nor, while thou grow'st such mushrooms, think of wheat!"Meanwhile, to put your patience to the test,180Lo! the spruce carver, to his task addrest,Skips, like a harlequin, from place to place,And waves his knife with pantomimic grace,Till every dish be ranged, and every jointSevered, by nicest rules, from point to point.185You think this folly—'tis a simple thought—To such perfection, now, is carving brought,That different gestures, by our curious men,Are used for different dishes, hare and hen.But think whate'er you may, your comments spare;190For should you, like a free-born Roman, dareTo hint your thoughts, forth springs some sturdy groom,And drags you straight, heels foremost, from the room!Does Virro ever pledge you? ever sipThe liquor touched by your unhallowed lip?195Or is there one of all your tribe so free,So desperate, as to say—"Sir, drink to me?"O, there is much, that never can be spokeBy a poor client in a threadbare cloak!But should some godlike man, more kind than fate,200Some god, present you with a knight's estate,Heavens, what a change! how infinitely dearWould Trebius then become! How great appear,From nothing! Virro, so reserved of late,Grows quite familiar: "Brother, send your plate.205Dear brother Trebius! you were wont to sayYou liked this trail, I think—Oblige me, pray."—O Riches!—this "dear brother" is your own,To you this friendship, this respect is shown.But would you now your patron's patron be?210Let no young Trebius wanton round your knee,No Trebia, none: a barren wife procuresThe kindest, truest friends! such then be yours.—Yet, should she breed, and, to augment your joys,Pour in your lap, at once, three bouncing boys,215Virro will still, so you be wealthy, deignTo toy and prattle with the lisping train;Will have his pockets too with farthings stored,And when the sweet young rogues approach his board,Bring out his pretty corselets for the breast,220His nuts, and apples, for each coaxing guest.You champ on spongy toadstools, hateful treat!Fearful of poison in each bit you eat;He feasts secure on mushrooms, fine as thoseWhich Claudius, for his special eating chose,225Till one more fine, provided by his wife,Finished at once his feasting, and his life!Apples, as fragrant, and as bright of hue,As those which in Alcinoüs' gardens grew,Mellowed by constant sunshine; or as those,230Which graced the Hesperides, in burnished rows;Apples, which you may smell, but never taste,Before your lord and his great friends are placed:While you enjoy mere windfalls, such stale fruit,As serves to mortify the raw recruit,235When, armed with helm and shield, the lance he throws,And trembles at the shaggy master's blows.You think, perhaps, that Virro treats so illTo save his gold; no, 'tis to vex you still:For, say, what comedy such mirth can raise,240As hunger, tortured thus a thousand ways?No (if you know it not), 'tis to exciteYour rage, your phrensy, for his mere delight;'Tis to compel you all your gall to show,And gnash your teeth in agonies of woe.245You deem yourself (such pride inflates your breast),Forsooth, a freeman, and your patron's guest;He thinks you a vile slave, drawn, by the smellOf his warm kitchen, there; and he thinks well:For who so low, so wretched as to bear250Such treatment twice, whose fortune 'twas to wearThe golden boss; nay, to whose humbler lot,The poor man's ensign fell, the leathern knot!Your palate still beguiles you: Ah, how niceThat smoking haunch! NOW we shall have a slice!255Now that half hare is coming! NOW a bitOf that young pullet! NOW—and thus you sit,Thumbing your bread in silence; watching still,For what has never reached you, never will!No more of freedom! 'tis a vain pretense:260Your patron treats you like a man of sense:For, if you can, without a murmur, bear,You well deserve the insults which you share.Anon, like voluntary slaves, you'll throwYour humbled necks beneath the oppressor's blow,265Nay, with bare backs, solicit to be beat,And meritSUCH A FRIEND, andSUCH A TREAT!
If—by reiterated scorn made bold,Your mind can still its shameless tenor hold,Still think the greatest blessing earth can give,Is, solely at another's cost to live;If—you can brook, what Galba would have spurned,5And mean Sarmentus with a frown returned,At Cæsar's haughty board, dependents both,I scarce would take your evidence on oath.The belly's fed with little cost: yet grantYou should, unhappily, that little want,10Some vacant bridge might surely still be found,Some highway side; where, groveling on the ground,Your shivering limbs compassion's sigh might wake,And gain an alms for "Charity's sweet sake!"What! can a meal, thus sauced, deserve your care?15Is hunger so importunate? whenTHERE,There, in your tattered rug, you may, my friend,On casual scraps more honestly depend;With chattering teeth toil o'er your wretched treat,And gnaw the crusts, which dogs refuse to eat!—20For, first, of this be sure: whene'er your lordThinks proper to invite you to his board,He pays, or thinks he pays, the total sumOf all your pains, past, present, and to come.Behold the meed of servitude! the great25Reward their humble followers with a treat,And count it current coin:—they count it such,And, though it be but little, think it much.If, after two long months, he condescendTo waste a thought upon an humble friend,30Reminded by a vacant seat, and write,"You, Master Trebius, sup with me to-night,"'Tis rapture all! Go now, supremely blest,Enjoy the meed for which you broke your rest,And, loose and slipshod, ran your vows to pay,35What time the fading stars announced the day;Or at that earlier hour, when, with slow roll,Thy frozen wain, Boötes, turned the pole;Yet trembling, lest the levee should be o'er,And the full court retiring from the door!40And what a meal at last! such ropy wine,As wool, which takes all liquids, would decline;Hot, heady lees, to fire the wretched guests,And turn them all to Corybants, or beasts.—At first, with sneers and sarcasms, they engage,45Then hurl the jugs around, with mutual rage;Or, stung to madness by the household train,With coarse stone pots a desperate fight maintain;While streams of blood in smoking torrents flow,And my lord smiles to see the battle glow!50Not such his beverage: he enjoys the juiceOf ancient days, when beards were yet in use,Pressed in the Social War!—but will not sendOne cordial drop, to cheer a fainting friend.To-morrow, he will change, and, haply, fill55The mellow vintage of the Alban hill,Or Setian; wines, which can not now be known,So much the mould of age has overgrownThe district, and the date; such generous bowls,As Thrasea and Helvidius, patriot souls!60While crowned with flowers, in sacred pomp, they lay,ToFreedomquaffed, on Brutus' natal day.Before your patron, cups of price are placed,Amber and gold, with rows of beryls graced:Cups, you can only at a distance view,65And never trusted to such guests as you!Or, if they be—a faithful slave attends,To count the gems, and watch your fingers' ends.You'll pardon him; but lo! a jasper there,Of matchless worth, which justifies his care:70For Virro, like his brother peers, of late,Has stripped his fingers to adorn his plate;And jewels now emblaze the festive board,}Which decked with nobler grace the hero's sword,}Whom Dido prized, above the Libyan lord.}75From such he drinks: to you the slaves allotThe Beneventine cobbler's four-lugged pot,A fragment, a mere shard, of little worth,But to be trucked for matches—and so forth.If Virro's veins with indigestion glow,80They bring him water cooled in Scythian snow:What! did I late complain a different wineFell to thy share? A different water's thine!Getulian slaves your vile potations pour,Or the coarse paws of some huge, raw-boned Moor,85Whose hideous form the stoutest would affray,If met, by moonlight, near the Latian way:On him a youth, the flower of Asia, waits,So dearly purchased, that the joint estatesOf Tullus, Ancus, would not yield the sum,90Nor all the wealth—of all the kings of Rome!Bear this in mind; and when the cup you need,Look to your own Getulian Ganymede;A page who cost so much, will ne'er, be sure,Come at your beck: he heeds not, he, the poor;95But, of his youth and beauty justly vain,Trips by them, with indifference and disdain.If called, he hears not, or, with rage inflamed—Indignant, that his services are claimedBy an old client, who, ye gods! commands,100And sits at ease, while his superior stands!Such proud, audacious minions swarm in Rome,And trample on the poor, where'er they come.Mark with what insolence another thrustsBefore your plate th' impenetrable crusts,105Black mouldy fragments, which defy the saw,The mere despair of every aching jaw!While manchets, of the finest flour, are setBefore your lord; but be you mindful, yet,And taste not, touch not: of the pantler stand110In trembling awe, and check your desperate hand—Yet, should you dare—a slave springs forth, to wrestThe sacred morsel from you. "Saucy guest,"He frowns, and mutters, "wilt thou ne'er divineWhat's for thy patron's tooth, and what for thine?115Never take notice from what tray thou'rt fed,Nor know the color of thy proper bread?"Was it for this, the baffled client cries,The tears indignant starting from his eyes,Was it for this I left my wife ere day,120And up the bleak Esquilian urged my way,While the wind howled, the hail-storm beat amain,And my cloak smoked beneath the driving rain!But lo, a lobster, introduced in state,Stretches, enormous, o'er the bending plate;125Proud of a length of tail, he seems to eyeThe humbler guests with scorn, as, towering by,He takes the place of honor at the board,And crowned with costly pickles, greets his lord!A crab is yours, ill garnished and ill fed,130With half an egg—a supper for the dead!He pours Venafran oil upon his fish,While the stale coleworts, in your wooden dish,Stink of the lamp; for such to you is thrown,Such rancid grease, as Afric sends to town;135So strong, that when her factors seek the bath,All wind, and all avoid, the noisome path;So pestilent! that her own serpents flyThe horrid stench, or meet it but to die.See! a sur-mullet now before him set,140From Corsica, or isles more distant yet,Brought post to Rome; since Ostia's shores no moreSupply the insatiate glutton, as of yore,Thinned by the net, whose everlasting throwAllows no Tuscan fish in peace to grow.145Still luxury yawns, unfilled; the nations rise,And ransack all their coasts for fresh supplies:Thence come your presents; thence, as rumor tells,The dainties Lenas buys, Aurelia sells.A lamprey next, from the Sicilian straits,150Of more than common size, on Virro waits—For oft as Auster seeks his cave, and flingsThe cumbrous moisture from his dripping wings,Forth flies the daring fisher, lured by gain,While rocks oppose, and whirlpools threat in vain.155To you an eel is brought, whose slender makeSpeaks him a famished cousin to the snake;Or some frost-bitten pike, who, day by day,Through half the city's ordure sucked his way!Would Virro deign to hear me, I could give160A few brief hints:—We look not to receiveWhat Seneca, what Cotta used to send,What the good Piso, to an humble friend:—For bounty once preferred a fairer claim,Than birth or power, to honorable fame:165No; all we ask (and you may this afford)Is, simply, civil treatment at your board;Indulge us here; and be, like numbers more,Rich to yourself, to your dependents poor!Vain hope! Near him a goose's liver lies;170A capon, equal to a goose in size;A boar, too, smokes, like that which fell, of old,By the famed hero with the locks of gold.Last, if the spring its genial influence shed,And welcome thunders call them from their bed,175Large mushrooms enter; ravished with their size,"O Libya, keep thy grain!" Alledius cries,"And bid thy oxen to their stalls retreat,Nor, while thou grow'st such mushrooms, think of wheat!"Meanwhile, to put your patience to the test,180Lo! the spruce carver, to his task addrest,Skips, like a harlequin, from place to place,And waves his knife with pantomimic grace,Till every dish be ranged, and every jointSevered, by nicest rules, from point to point.185You think this folly—'tis a simple thought—To such perfection, now, is carving brought,That different gestures, by our curious men,Are used for different dishes, hare and hen.But think whate'er you may, your comments spare;190For should you, like a free-born Roman, dareTo hint your thoughts, forth springs some sturdy groom,And drags you straight, heels foremost, from the room!Does Virro ever pledge you? ever sipThe liquor touched by your unhallowed lip?195Or is there one of all your tribe so free,So desperate, as to say—"Sir, drink to me?"O, there is much, that never can be spokeBy a poor client in a threadbare cloak!But should some godlike man, more kind than fate,200Some god, present you with a knight's estate,Heavens, what a change! how infinitely dearWould Trebius then become! How great appear,From nothing! Virro, so reserved of late,Grows quite familiar: "Brother, send your plate.205Dear brother Trebius! you were wont to sayYou liked this trail, I think—Oblige me, pray."—O Riches!—this "dear brother" is your own,To you this friendship, this respect is shown.But would you now your patron's patron be?210Let no young Trebius wanton round your knee,No Trebia, none: a barren wife procuresThe kindest, truest friends! such then be yours.—Yet, should she breed, and, to augment your joys,Pour in your lap, at once, three bouncing boys,215Virro will still, so you be wealthy, deignTo toy and prattle with the lisping train;Will have his pockets too with farthings stored,And when the sweet young rogues approach his board,Bring out his pretty corselets for the breast,220His nuts, and apples, for each coaxing guest.You champ on spongy toadstools, hateful treat!Fearful of poison in each bit you eat;He feasts secure on mushrooms, fine as thoseWhich Claudius, for his special eating chose,225Till one more fine, provided by his wife,Finished at once his feasting, and his life!Apples, as fragrant, and as bright of hue,As those which in Alcinoüs' gardens grew,Mellowed by constant sunshine; or as those,230Which graced the Hesperides, in burnished rows;Apples, which you may smell, but never taste,Before your lord and his great friends are placed:While you enjoy mere windfalls, such stale fruit,As serves to mortify the raw recruit,235When, armed with helm and shield, the lance he throws,And trembles at the shaggy master's blows.You think, perhaps, that Virro treats so illTo save his gold; no, 'tis to vex you still:For, say, what comedy such mirth can raise,240As hunger, tortured thus a thousand ways?No (if you know it not), 'tis to exciteYour rage, your phrensy, for his mere delight;'Tis to compel you all your gall to show,And gnash your teeth in agonies of woe.245You deem yourself (such pride inflates your breast),Forsooth, a freeman, and your patron's guest;He thinks you a vile slave, drawn, by the smellOf his warm kitchen, there; and he thinks well:For who so low, so wretched as to bear250Such treatment twice, whose fortune 'twas to wearThe golden boss; nay, to whose humbler lot,The poor man's ensign fell, the leathern knot!Your palate still beguiles you: Ah, how niceThat smoking haunch! NOW we shall have a slice!255Now that half hare is coming! NOW a bitOf that young pullet! NOW—and thus you sit,Thumbing your bread in silence; watching still,For what has never reached you, never will!No more of freedom! 'tis a vain pretense:260Your patron treats you like a man of sense:For, if you can, without a murmur, bear,You well deserve the insults which you share.Anon, like voluntary slaves, you'll throwYour humbled necks beneath the oppressor's blow,265Nay, with bare backs, solicit to be beat,And meritSUCH A FRIEND, andSUCH A TREAT!