Classic Poem

Tho' Scaeva, of yourself discrete,
You know how with grandees to treat,
Yet still to these remarks attend,
And take th'opinion of a friend,
Who'll teach you things of great concern,
Himself not yet too old to learn,
As tho' the blind shou'd lead the way;
Howev'r, observing what I say,
You'll see some things, that must conduce
To be of most peculiar use.
If self-indulgence make thee gay,
And kindly sleep till break of day,
If dust and rumbling of the wheels,
And noise in which the tavern deals,
Offend thee, then you must repair
To Ferentinum, I declare.
For all the joys beneath the skies,
The rich cannot monopolize;
Nor has he done amiss, whose lease
Of life were secrecy and peace.
If you your family wou'd serve,
And for your own content reserve
A cast upon a higher die,
Betimes you must the nobles ply.
Had Aristippus been content
To dine on herbs, he ne'er had went
Unto the tables of the grand —
Diogenes on t'other hand,
Who to our notions will object,
If he had skill'd in that respect,
Might so have liv'd in splendid scenes,
And wou'd have scorn'd his roots and greens:
Whose words and actions of the two
You best approve, I prithee shew;
Or, as you're junior, hear the test,
Why Aristippus reasons best.
For he was wont (as stories say)
To keep the Cynic thus at bay.
" The jester's province I profess,
To serve myself with some address,
But you to give the mob delight:
So what I practise, as more right,
Is a more honourable thing:
To ride and revel with the king.
I am obsequious in my turn —
You beg for what the donors spurn,
Yet are inferior in your soul
To him that gives the sorry dole,
Tho' you mean while your boast have made,
You need not any human aid."
Rare Aristippus, genius born
All lot and station to adorn,
Each look of things a grace he lent,
Tho' still aspiring, still content.
But I shou'd think it very strange,
If e'er the churl shou'd brook a change,
Whose obstinacy will but wear
Two rags against th'inclement air.
The one if summon'd to the great,
Will not for purple vestments wait:
But be his habit as it may,
To the first place will make his way,
And without awkwardness and pain,
Will any character sustain.
The other fellow a fine cloak,
Wrought at Miletum, wou'd provoke
Worse than a mastiff, or a snake,
And he with shiv'ring cold will ache,
Unless his rags you give him back —
Give them — and let him live and lack.
Great actions of heroic lives,
To shew to Rome her foe in gyves,
Ev'n at Jove's throne directly aim,
And there celestial honours claim.
And such immortal chiefs as these,
'Tis not the meanest praise to please:
But 'tis not ev'ry fawner's fate,
To gain a point so very great.
One fearing he shou'd not succeed,
Was prudent to sit still — agreed —
What then? was it not bravely done
By him, that hit the mark and won?
But here, or no where we must end
The matter, which we now contend.
One dreads the weight, too weak and poor
In limbs and spirit to endure;
The other makes the bus'ness sure.
The man whose resolution tries
Thro' hardship to attain the prize,
Shou'd be rewarded and renown'd,
Or virtue is an empty sound.
He that before his Lord forbears
To hint the dearth of his affairs,
Is likely to take more away,
Than one too apt to beg and pray.
It differs much with modest ease
To take, or greedily to seize;
For in the conduct of your part,
Lies all the myst'ry of your art.
If thus a man his Lord address,
" I have a sister portionless,
A mother poor with an estate,
Which will not sell at any rate,
Nor yields it, whence we may be fed:"
Such an one plainly begs his bread;
A second will keep up the cant,
For you a dividend to grant.
But if the crow had held her prate,
She'd had more victuals and less hate,
When bick'ring at her cruel fate.
If when your Lord shou'd take his rout
Far as Brundusium, or set out
For fair Surrentum, and as friend
Invite his client to attend:
He who of rugged roads complains,
Or bitter cold, or heavy rains,
Or for his broken trunk laments,
And for the loss of the contents,
Resembles but too stale a bite,
Which harlots practice every night,
Oft wailing they've a garter lost,
Or string of pearls of mighty cost:
So that when really made a prey,
No faith is giv'n to what they say.
Nor cares a man, once made a fool,
To be again th'impostor's tool,
Who with pretended broken legs,
Thrown in the road for succour begs,
Ev'n tho' the gypsy stream with tears,
And by the great Osiris swears —
" This is no fraud, I pray believe,
And on your backs the lame receive."
Your tricks upon some stranger try,
All the hoarse neighbourhood reply.