Classic Poem

Satire VII.

" Long while a list'ner, I wou'd speak,
But somewhat dread my mind to break,
As but a slave" — " What, is it you?
Is't Davus?" — " Davus good and true:
That is so far as to give hope
There's no occasion for a rope." —
" Well, use the right the Roman sire
Allows you by the winter fire,
And since December's come about,
Come let us fairly have it out."
" There is a portion of mankind
Who're constantly to vice inclin'd,
And let their faults take root and grow.
Many there are that ebb and flow,
One while a sideling to the right,
One while to sin obnoxious quite.
Priscus, observ'd at times to wear
Three rings, at times his left-hand bare,
Liv'd so irregular, his way
Was still to shift ten times a day.
Sometimes from a most sumptuous scene
He'd seek a place so poor and mean,
From whence a servant just made free
Wou'd scarce appear with decency:
One while a rake at Rome, one while
A scholar in th'Athenian style,
Born, when Vertumnus and his airs
Prevail'd the most on man's affairs.
When Volanerius got the gout
His hands deserv'd his life throughout,
The stay'd buffoon hir'd at a price
A substitute to throw the dice:
One, who to sin the more in chains
Was much less wretched for his pains,
Than he who plays at fast and loose,
All abstinence, or all abuse." —
" Thou varlet canst thou ever shew
To what this trash pertains?" — " To you" —
" How, scoundrel?" — " You are apt to praise
The peace and forms of ancient days,
To which shou'd any God reduce
Your manners, you wou'd beg excuse;
Because you have not that at heart
Which you so clamorously assert,
Or too irresolute and light
To stand by what is just and right,
You hesitate with vain desire
To get your foot from out the mire:
In town you for the country sigh,
But Rome's extoll'd up to the sky,
When to your villa you're confin'd,
Such is your fickleness of mind.
If uninvited by a friend,
Your peace and sallad you commend,
And hug yourself at home and bless
That you shall share no man's excess,
As if by force alone you stirr'd —
But shou'd Maecenas send you word
Late as the lighting of the rooms:
" Ho! quick, who brings me these perfumes?
What no one hear a man?" — you cry,
As loud as you can bawl — and fly.
Milvius and play'rs, that hop'd to stay,
In wrath go supperless away,
And leaving many a backward pray'r
Too gross for your nice ears to bear.
Some one may say, nor I deny,
That I with appetite comply,
Snuff up my nose at sav'ry food,
Am weak and dull, and to conclude
A sot — but seeing, sir, you are
As bad as I am, and to spare,
Why do you call me to account,
As if your virtues did surmount,
And veil the errors of your ways,
In all the art of specious phrase?
But what, and if you shou'd be found
More fool than him, that cost ten pound?
Why then refrain each threatning look,
The hand and wrath I cannot brook,
While I into your ears relate
The things I learnt at Crispin's gate.
You with your robes all thrown aside,
Your ring and your Equestrian pride,
From a grave magistrate evade
As Dama in a masquerade,
Still in suspence about your fate,
Art not the thing you personate?
And dreading danger for the nonce,
Are trembling in your honour's bones!
What differs it, once bound on oath
For scourge, or broad-sword, or for both,
Or shut within a filthy chest,
Where of the lady's sins possess'd
A maid has cramm'd you neck and heels!
Does not the husband hold the seals,
So far as a just power to claim
Against both whoring rogue and dame!
A juster with regard to you,
For she nor changes place nor hue:
Besides the woman acts in dread,
Nor trusts a word of all you said.
Yet to the yoke you needs must stoop,
The raging husband's destin'd dupe;
Life, body, fortune, soul and all
In a most lamentable thrall.
You have escap'd and will beware —
No, no, you'll seek another snare
Again to fear, again to die,
O wav'rer for servility!
What beast so fond as to obtrude
Upon the snares it cou'd elude?
You're no adulterer, you will say,
Nor I a felon by my fay,
When prudent I pass by the plate,
But if from Tyburn you'll abate,
Nature, when left unto herself,
Will clear the closet and the shelf.
Inferior then in deed and word
Will you pretend to be my lord,
Who punish'd twice and twice again,
Will never from your sins refrain?
Add we yet more to what we've said
Of equal weight upon this head.
Whether a man, whom slaves obey
Be freeman, or a slave, as they,
(For this sometimes is a dispute)
Are you or I of most repute?
For you, o'er me who domineer
To others are in servile fear,
And like a poppet wir'd and shown
Have not a motion of your own;
Who then is free of all mankind?
One wise and master of his mind
Whom neither want nor death nor bonds
Can terrify — who corresponds
With heav'n and virtue to defy
All lust and fame beneath the sky;
At once by gift and conduct too
As finely turn'd, as polish'd true;
So that no rub or outward force
Retard him in his level course;
'Gainst whom dame fortune is at fault,
Whene'er she makes her worst assault!
From all these attributes of fame
Have you a single thing to claim?
A woman of the town demands
Five talents of your honour's hands,
And after you're turn'd out of bed
Throws down cold water on your head.
Anon she calls you — break the chain,
And say, that " I am free again, "
You are not able: for that scourge
And sov'reign of your soul will urge,
And as he calls himself DESIRE
Will spur the more, the more you tire.
When you, in folly so far gone,
Admire a piece by Pausias drawn,
Are you the less to blame than me,
Who, when the prize-fighters I see,
Stare at the men or brown'd or black't
In coal or oaker — " 'tis the fact,
The very thing, the martial strife,
They strike and parry life and life. "
Davus is idle, to be sure,
And you a vet'ran connoisseur.
I, if I smell when people bake,
Am call'd to nothing for a cake:
Does your great virtue, godlike soul,
Resist the ven'son and the jole?
My fondness for my paunch is wrong:
Why so? — I rue it by the thong.
But are you of all smarting clear,
Who buy your things so plaguy dear?
Then those titbits, which you repeat
So oft, your palled stomach heat,
And for your body you provide,
Mis-judging feet your steps to guide.
Shou'd any boy a strigil take
By night, and pawn it for plumb-cake,
Is he to blame? And are not you ,
Who sell your farms for dainties too?
Besides, you never can command
An hour yourself, nor understand
How you your leisure shou'd amuse,
And self to self wou'd fain excuse,
A vagabond from thought, who pine
To banish care by sleep or wine,
In vain — for sticking to your back
He is your constant friend in black."
— " A stone where is there to be had?
A dart?" — " How now, the man is mad,
Or making verse" — " restrain your speech,
Or quick you go to hedge and ditch."