Classic Poem

O subject of my first essays!
Whom as in duty bound to praise,
My muse ev'n to the last persists,
Again you force me to the lists,
With freedom's rod dismiss'd the stage,
As far too much expos'd in age.
No more I have the thirst for fame,
Nor is my time of day the same.
Vejanius having fix'd his arms
Now skreens him in the ground he farms,
That from the theatre no more,
He may the mob for life implore.
Something keeps whisp'ring in my ear,
Which purg'd can in the spirit hear,
Loose the old courser, if you're wise,
Lest, if he enter for the prize,
He may be scorn'd, as coming last,
And fetch his broken wind too fast.
Wherefore I now will throw away,
All verse and toys of idle play,
And all enquiry, thought, and care,
But what is true, and what is fair,
And hoard up maxims, and for use
Arrange them, that I may deduce.
And lest, perchance, you shou'd enquire,
What school, what master, I admire,
Know I'm addicted to no sect,
Nor swear, as other men direct,
But suit the tenor of my way,
To the complexion of the day;
Now active and officious grown,
To state contentions am I prone,
A guard and stedfast partizan
Of virtue, and th'heroic man;
With Aristippus now agree,
Not I for things, but things for me.
As tedious as the livelong night
To him, whose mistress plays the bite,
As tedious as the livelong day,
To hirelings that must work for pay;
As tedious as the livelong year,
To minors under dames severe;
So do all times and seasons go
With me, intolerably slow,
Which in the least retard the thought
Of doing all things, as we ought,
And making of that point secure,
Which gain'd is well for rich and poor,
But if neglected will destroy
Alike the hope of man and boy.
Add yet, that I myself controul,
And with these dictates sooth my soul.
Like Lynceus you cannot discern,
Yet do not wholesome eye-salve spurn.
And tho' you are not quite so stout
As matchless Glycon, walk about,
By exercise to foil the gout.
We may begin at least and strive,
Tho' to the goal we cannot drive.
Does your breast glow inflam'd with vice
By lust, or sordid avarice?
Know, there are words and charming sounds,
Whence one may sooth all mental wounds,
May mitigate the pain at least,
If not intirely calm your breast.
Are you puff'd up with love of praise,
Philosophers have wrote essays,
Which thrice read o'er your heart will chear,
If your attention be sincere.
The envious, wrathful, slow of will,
The wencher, toper, know no ill,
But may be cur'd, if they'll apply
The lectures of philosophy.
'Tis virtue first from vice to flee,
And the first wisdom to be free
From folly — are you not aware,
With how much labour, how much care
Of mind and body, 'tis your aim
Want or rejection to disclaim,
Things that you rate the greatest shame!
A merchant to the farthest shore
Of India, to be poor no more,
And with assiduous toil you brave
The rocks, the flames, the wind and wave:
Will you not hear, and learn, and trust
Those that are wiser, lest you lust,
And any more those things admire,
Which 'tis a folly to desire?
Is there a fighter for a prize
About the streets, that wou'd despise
The honour of th'Olympic crown,
Had he the hopes of such renown,
And, that he takes no pains at all,
Was mention'd as conditional?
Silver is less of price than gold,
And gold than virtue, thousand fold.
Yet, O ye cits! this is the cry,
Let money be the first supply,
And then be honest by and bye.
This is at either Janus taught,
And this cant ev'n our youths have got,
This too can each old dotard charm,
With bag and ledger on his arm.
Polite, brave, eloquent, and true,
If certain sesterces be due,
Four hundred thousand to fulfil,
You must be a plebeian still.
And yet the very boys at play
Cry, he shall be the king to-day
Whoe'er behaves the best of all.
This be thy fort and brazen wall,
To have a conscience clear within,
Nor colour at the charge of sin.
Say, is the Roscian edict best,
Or does the ballad stand the test,
Where the boys offer, as they sing,
The crown to him who lives a king?
Which manly Curius sung of yore,
And brave Camillus long before;
From him does better counsel come,
Who bids you scramble up a sum;
Right, if you can; but if your fate
Deny, a sum at any rate,
That you may have the foremost row,
When Puppius plays his tragic woe?
Or him who animates your fight,
And wishes you may stand upright,
With lib'ral soul to stem the tide
Of fortune, with her frowns and pride?
Now shou'd the Romans bid me say,
Why I, who walk in the same way,
Have not my sentiments the same,
Nor follow as they praise or blame —
I make my answer in the stile
Of crafty Reynard, all the while,
Who thus unto the lion said,
When he beheld him sick, " I dread
The footsteps all toward your throne,
But in the home-direction none!"
Thou dost with many heads appear
A monster, where must I adhere?
Who's guide? with some it is a charm,
The public revenues to farm,
And some rich widows wou'd intice,
With fruits and sweetmeats, all the price.
And others wou'd old dotards get,
Like fish decoy'd into their net.
Many by secret us'ry thrive —
But grant that all the men alive,
With diff'rent talents are supplied,
Can they a single hour abide,
Approving their avow'd persuits?
" No place in all the world disputes
The palm with Baiae, sweet and gay."
This haply shou'd a rich man say,
Anon the lake and sea must feel
The hurry of his lordly zeal.
But if caprice the hint approve —
" To-morrow, masons, all remove
Your chissels and your iron crows,
And at Theanum's seat dispose."
Has he at home a genial bed?
He will advance upon this head,
The happier and the better fate
Is his, who keeps the single state.
But if he's single, he'll protest
That married men alone are blest;
What noose for Proteus shall I find,
His many-changing form to bind?
How fares the peasant? — there's the joke —
He shifts and turns like other folk;
Changes his loft, and bed of hair,
Bath, barber — when he pays his fare,
In his own barge the rich grandee
Is not more nice and sick than he:
Me, if with my hair all cut awry
By some bad barber you espy,
You laugh — and if beneath a coat
That's neat, a ragged shirt you note,
And if my gown but badly fit,
Again you laugh to show your wit.
What therefore will you do with me
Whose soul and self cannot agree?
When now I spurn the thing I sought,
Now sigh for what I set at nought,
Disorder'd in th'unconstant tide
Of things, that vary far and wide,
Knock down, rebuild, turn square to round?
You judge me but to be unsound
According to the gen'ral trim,
And neither ridicule the whim,
Nor think I want a doctor's aid,
Nor keeper by the Praetor paid:
Tho' you're the guard of my affairs,
And liable to real cares,
For a cut finger, if your friend's,
Who loves you, and on you depends.
In fine, the Stoics only prove,
The wise is less, if less, than Jove,
Whom free, fam'd, king 'tis fair to call,
And in his senses after all;
Unless a sudden fit of spleen
By some mishap shou'd intervene.