Classic Poem

THE NINTH SATIRE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF
HORACE

ADAPTED TO THE PRESENT TIMES. THE DESCRIPTION OF AN IMPERTINENT

[Written 1757. Published 1759, in Duncombe's edition
of Horace, vol. ii.]
Saunt'ring along the street one day,
On trifles musing by the way,
Up steps a free familiar wight;
(I scarcely knew the man by sight)
“Carlos,” he cried, “your hand, my dear.
Gad, I rejoice to meet you here!
Pray Heaven I see you well!”—So, so;
E'en well enough, as times now go.
The same good wishes, sir, to you.
Finding he still pursu'd me close,
Sir, you have business, I suppose:
“My business, Sir, is quickly done,
'Tis but to make my merit known;
Sir, I have read”—O learned Sir,
You and your reading I revere.
Then, sweating with anxiety,
And sadly longing to get free,
Gods! how I scamper'd, scuffl'd for't,
Ran, halted, ran again, stopp'd short,
Beckon'd my boy, and pull'd him near,
And whisper'd—nothing in his ear.
Teaz'd with his loose unjointed chat,
”
O Harlow! how I envied thee
Thy unabash'd effrontery,
Who dar'st a foe with freedom blame,
And call a coxcomb by his name!
When I return'd him answer none,
Obligingly the fool ran on,
“I see you're dismally distress'd,
Would give the world to be releas'd,
But, by your leave, Sir, I shall still
Stick, to your skirts, do what you will.
Pray which way does your journey tend?”
O! 'tis a tedious way, my friend,
Across the Thames, the Lord knows where;
I would not trouble you so far.
“Well, I'm at leisure to attend you.”
Are you? Thought I, the De'il befriend you!
No ass with double panniers rack'd,
Oppress'd, o'erladen, broken-back'd,
E'er look'd a thousandth part so dull
As I, nor half so like a fool.
“Sir, I know little of myself,”
Proceeds the pert conceited elf,
“If Gray or Mason you will deem
Than me more worthy your esteem.
Poems I write by folios,
As fast as other men write prose.
Then I can sing so loud, so clear,
That Beard cannot with me compare.
In dancing too I all surpass,
Not Cooke can move with such a grace.”
Here I made shift, with much ado,
To interpose a word or two,—
Have you no parents, Sir? no friends,
Whose welfare on your own depends?
“Parents, relations, say you? No:
They're all dispos'd of long ago.”
Happy to be no more perplex'd!
My fate too threatens, I go next.
Dispatch me, Sir, 'tis now too late,
Alas! to struggle with my fate!
Well, I'm convinc'd my time is come;
When young, a gipsy told my doom;
The beldam shook her palsied head,
As she perus'd my palm, and said,
“Of poison, pestilence, or war,
Gout, stone, defluxion, or catarrh,
You have no reason to beware.
Beware the coxcomb's idle prate,
Chiefly, my son, beware of that;
Be sure , when you behold him, fly
Out of all ear-shot, or you die!—”
To Rufus' Hall we now drew near,
Where he was summon'd to appear,
REfute the charge the plaintiff brought,
Or sugger judgment by default.
“For Heav'n's sake, if you love me, wait
One moment! I'll attend you straight.”
Glad of a plausible pretence—
Sir, I must beg you to dispense
With my attendance in the court.
My legs will surely suffer for't,—
“Nay, pr'ythee Carlos, stop awhile!”
Faith, Sir, in law I have no skill,
Besides, I have no time to spare,
I must be going you know where—
“Well, I protest, I'm doubtful now,
Whether to leave my suit or you!—”
Me, without scruple! I reply,
Me, by all means Sir!—“No, not I!
Allons, Monsieur! ” 'Twere vain, you know,
To strive with a victorious foe.
So I reluctantly obey,
And follow where he leads the way.
“You and Newcastle are so close;
Still hand and glove, sir, I suppose?
Newcastle (let me tell you, Sir,)
Has not his equal every where.
Well!. There indeed your fortune's made!
Faith, Sir, you understand your trade.
Would you but give me your good word,
Just introduce me to my lord.
I should serve charmingly, by way
Of second fiddle , as they say:
What think you, Sir? 'twere a good jest;
'Slife! we should quickly scout the rest.”
Sir, you mistake the matter far,
We have no second fiddles there.
Richer than I some folks may be;
More learned; but it hurts not me,
Friends though he has of different kind,
Each has his proper place assign'd.
“ Strange matters these, alledg'd by you!”
Strange they may be, but they are true.
“Well, then, I vow, 'tis mighty clever;
Now I long ten times more than ever
To be advanc'd extremely near
One of his shining character.”
Have but the will—there wants no more,
'Tis plain enough you have the pow'r.
His easy temper (that's the worst)
He knows, and so is shy at first.
But such a cavalier as you—
Lord, Sir, you'll quickly bring him to!
“Well, if I fail in my design,
Sir, it shall be no fault of mine;
If by the saucy servile tribe
Deinied, what think you of a bribe?
Shut out to-day, not die with sorrow,
But try my luck again to-morrow.
Never attempt to visit him
But at the most convenient time,
Attend him on each Levée day,
And there my humble duty pay.
Labour, like this, our want supplies;
And they must stoop, who mean to rise.”
While thus he wittily harangu'd,
For which you'll guess I wish'd him hang'd,
Campley, a friend of mine, came by,
Who knew his humour more than I.
We stop, salute, and—“Why so fast,
Friend Carlos? whither all this haste?”
Fir'd at the thoughts of a reprieve,
I pinch him, pull him, twitch his sleeve,
Nod, beckon, bite my lips, wink, pout,
Do every thing but speak plain out:
While he, sad dog, from the beginning,
Determin'd to mistake my meaning,
Instead of pitying my curse,
By jeering made it ten times worse.—
Campley, what secret, pray, was that
You wanted to communicate?
“I recollect. But 'tis no matter;
Carlos! we'll talk of that herea'ter.
E'en let the secret rest; 'twill tell
Another time, Sir, just as well.”
Was evèr such a dismal day?
Unlucky cur! he steals away,
And leaves me, half bereft of life,
At mercy of the butcher's knife;
When, sudden, shouting from afar,
See his antagonist appear!
The bailiff seiz'd him, quick as thought,
“Ho! Mr. Soundrel! are you caught!
Sir, you are witness to th' arrest.—”
Aye, marry, Sir, I'll do my best.
The mob huzzas; away they trudge,
Culprit and all, before the judge.
Meanwhile I, luckily enough,
(Thanks to Apollo) got clear off.