Classic Poem

Florus, great Nero's faithful friend,
Shou'd any man by chance commend
A little stripling, to be bought
From Gabii, or from Tibur brought,
And thus begin with you to treat,
" This boy, Sir, 's of a temper sweet,
And sightly ev'n from head to foot,
And he his Lord's commands will suit;
Pay me but fifty pounds — he goes —
A little Greek the youngster knows;
Like clay for models, you with ease
Can make him learn whate'er you please;
His voice, tho' rude, is well to pass,
And entertaining o'er a glass.
Huge promises will credit lose,
When any man is too profuse
In praising what he wants to sell:
Necessity does not compel
That he must needs be sold as yet,
Tho' poor I am in no man's debt;
There's not a dealer you cou'd find,
So much unto your honour's mind,
And there's not any man but you
That I wou'd thus oblige — 'tis true.
This boy (as often is the way)
Did once upon an errant stay
Then fled, thro' fear to feel the pangs
Of whip, that on the stair-case hangs,
Wherefore if this, his only vice,
Offend you not, pay down the price."
The man may for his money call,
And be indemnified withal,
According to my skill in trade;
You wittingly a purchase made
Of him, who for a knave was sold,
But the conditions were foretold,
And yet you will th'affair dispute,
And forward an unrighteous suit.
I told you, when you went away,
That I was idle, out of play,
Nor cou'd such offices abide —
I told you that you might not chide,
When from my hands no letter came.
But what's all this, if you disclaim
Conditions for myself I made,
And furthermore your friend upbraid,
That he's no better than a liar,
Not sending verse, as you require.
After much hardship in the fight,
As tir'd he snor'd away the night,
A soldier of Lucullus' host,
His money to a farthing lost;
From this a rav'nous wolf he grows,
Wroth with himself, as with his foes,
Fierce rushing, with his hungry fangs,
From off their post he soundly bangs
A royal guard (as they report)
And took their stores and strongest fort.
By such great gallantry renown'd,
He is with highest honours crown'd:
The Chief besides to him decrees
Full fifty thousand sesterces.
It happen'd just upon this feat,
His captain was intent to beat
The foe, and batter their redoubt —
Words that wou'd make a coward stout,
He to the self-same man addrest,
" Go thou the bravest and the best,
Go where thy valour calls, and speed
About to share rewards indeed!
Why do you stand debating — march!" —
On which my chap extremely arch,
Tho' but a clown, made answer back,
" Let him go foremost to th'attack,
His lance at your command to couch,
Who's fall'n asleep, and lost his pouch."
It was my lot in tender age
At Rome to con th'Homeric page,
How by the wrath of Peleus' son,
The Grecian councils were undone;
Ingenuous Athens added more,
Of what is call'd the useful lore,
The right from its reverse to know,
And in the search of truth to go,
Where solitary wisdom roves,
And thinks in academic groves.
But the perverseness of the time
Displac'd me from that pleasant clime,
And, ere I knew whom I was for,
Involv'd in tides of civil war,
And arms, in which there was no hope
That they shou'd with Augustus cope;
From whence when we were all dispers'd,
And from Philippi sent amerc'd,
With my wings clipt, and heart unmann'd,
And destitute of house and land,
Compell'd by poverty intense,
I boldly did a bard commence.
But now remote from being poor,
What med'cines cou'd my phrenzy cure,
If I should write or verse, or prose,
In preference to my repose?
The fleeting years from spring to fall,
Have fairly rob'd me of my all,
My jests, my gallantry, my play,
And revellings are ta'en away.
Now they're exerting of their force,
The very Muses to divorce:
Then how shou'd I direct my course?
In short, all matters do not strike
On every personage alike;
The ode is by your choice preferr'd,
He likes iambics, and a third
The satires written on the plan
Of Bion, that invet'rate man;
Here are three guests, cannot approve
Of the same dish , or same remove ;
What shall I give, or what refuse?
You spurn the things that others chuse,
And what's acceptable to you
Will give offence to t'other two.
Besides all this, pray how do you think
A man can harmonize his ink,
At Rome, amidst his toils and cares
And all his intricate affairs?
One summons me to be his bail,
And one to hear him without fail,
While he, forsooth, his work recites!
To Mount Quirinus one invites,
The other two I must attend,
On Aventine the farther end.
Both must be visited, you see
The distance suits one charmingly :
" But never mind, the streets are clear,
Fit for the thoughtful and severe;"
A builder hurries with his mules,
And porter bearing chips and tools;
The timber-tug now whirls a stone,
And now a log to break a bone;
Now a dispute is likewise made
'Twixt waggon, and the sad parade
Of fun'ral pomp — a mad dog now,
Now rushes a most filthy sow:
Go, poet, make your verses neat,
And let their melody be sweet.
Thro' all their choir, the gen'ral run
Of bards love groves, and cities shun,
Due votaries of Bacchus made,
Rejoicing in repose and shade.
Must I then sing the tuneful lay
Amidst such din both night and day,
And up hill strive the steps to trace
Of poetry's retarded race?
A genius who has made retreat,
In Athens' leisure-loving seat,
And there his constitution wears
Sev'n years immers'd in books and cares,
Sometimes comes out into the town,
A mere dumb statue in a gown,
Till all the people shake their sides —
But how in all these boistrous tides
And tempests of the city-throng
Can I associate lyre and song!
At Rome together liv'd of late,
A dab in tropes and advocate;
Those men were brothers, and so near
Allied, that they wou'd only hear
Their mutual praise, in mutual speech,
Gracchus and Mucius, each to each.
Why shou'd this wrath of complaisance
Be less in them that sing and dance?
I write but odes, another sings
His elegies, amazing things
Trick't up by all the muses train —
Observe you first, with what disdain,
And what importance for ourselves,
We view the temple's vacant shelves.
Next if your leisure is inclin'd,
Yourself may follow us behind,
And hear us quote and judge the cause
We crown each other with applause.
We work in counterfeited fight,
Like Samnite blades, till candle-light.
I am Alceus the divine,
By his decree — who's he by mine?
Callim'chus; if I underrate,
Mimnermus more divinely great.
Much do I bear to keep in grace
With bards, that irritable race,
Whilst I myself, to get the bays,
Submissive court the people's praise,
But having now my studies clos'd,
Quite sound, tho' lately indispos'd,
I can, secure of former fears,
Against reciters stop my ears.
The makers of your wretched strains,
By all are laugh'd at for their pains;
But in the writing they rejoice,
And for themselves will give their voice,
And if you let their praise alone,
The men are happy in their own.
But whoso chuses to compile
A work in genuine form and style,
Shou'd with his pen assume the mind
Of critic, honest and refin'd;
He boldly will all words displace,
Devoid of cleanness and of grace,
Such as are destitute of weight,
Such as are not sublime and great;
All these your blotting hand require,
Howe'er unwilling to retire,
And deem'd eternal for their fire.
Such phrases, as from Rome have long
Been hid, he will revive in song,
And kindly bring to light again
Words, which ideas best explain,
The language of the great and just,
Tho' now disus'd thro' age and rust.
New words he likewise will invent,
All founded on experiment:
At once strong, musical, and clear,
Like some pure river he'll appear,
And pour out his redundant store
Abroad upon th'Italian shore;
What's too luxuriant he will pare,
To what is harsh he'll give an air;
What has no worth he'll take away.
He'll ape the mimic in the play,
With his invention on the rack,
While now he has the Satyr's knack,
And now like Cyclops must advance,
Stupendous in the clumsy dance.
I'd rather be esteem'd a fool,
And object of all ridicule,
Self-entertain'd, or self-deceiv'd,
Than with my wisdom be aggriev'd.
At Argos once it came to pass,
A personage of no mean class,
Set in a theatre at ease
Alone, and clapt himself to please,
Supposing that he heard the play'r,
Divinely tragedizing there:
And yet in other points of view,
This man cou'd all his duty do,
Good neighbour, courteous to his guest,
And with kind love his wife carest,
Indulgent to forgive a slave,
So as not actually to rave,
If he had dar'd to tap his wine —
Wou'd well, or precipice decline —
At length by care, and by expence
Of friends, recovering his sense.
" Good sirs, (says he) be all assur'd,
You've kill'd me, rather than have cur'd,
Who've rob'd my thoughts of sweet employ,
And all my visionary joy." —
'Tis granted life is best apply'd
To wisdom, throwing toys aside;
Leave then to boys all childish play,
Theirs is the proper time of day,
Nor merely think on words to dwell,
Adapted to the Latian shell,
But method and array to scan,
Which tend to harmonize the man:
Wherefore I with myself converse,
And only things like these rehearse:
" If, tho' you drank until you burst,
No water yet wou'd quench your thirst,
To doctors you wou'd tell th'affair;
How is it that you do not dare,
By frank confession to explain,
The more you've got, the more you'd gain?
If from a root or herb prescrib'd,
Your wound no healing balm imbib'd,
That herb, or root, you'd surely shun,
By which you found no good was done;
You by some conjuror was told,
To whom the Gods give store of gold,
From him depravity of heart,
And folly shall of course depart;
But since you are no wiser grown,
With all this plenitude your own,
Why have you therefore any more
The same advisers, as before?
But if wealth made you wise of soul,
Your lusts and terrors to controul,
You ought to blush if earth cou'd shew
A man more covetous than you."
If goods your property are found,
Bought by the penny, and the pound;
And some things (as the law assures)
Are wholly by possession yours;
The field that feeds you is your own,
And while he harrows it when sown,
The hind of Orbus still imputes
The right to him that has the fruits.
You give your cash receiving more,
Grapes, pullets, eggs, and wine galore,
Till by degrees the farm you've made,
For which p'rhaps the owner paid,
(To speak upon a mod'rate guess)
Three hundred thousand sesterces.
What boots it if your food you owe
To things bought now or long ago!
He, who that Aricinian spot,
Or field of Veiens lately got,
Sups on bought herbs, tho' he thinks not.
Nay more, he boils his very food
Each frosty night with purchas'd wood;
And yet they're all his freehold lands
As far as where the poplar stands,
And is the limit to forefend
Disputes at law 'twixt friend and friend;
As if ought was a man's estate,
Which in one moment of his date,
Now by petition, now by pay,
By violence another day,
Or by the common lot of all,
May to some other owner fall.
Then since for ever is not here,
Heir making heir still disappear,
As wave o'er wave the billows rise,
Then what are towns, or granaries,
Or cou'd you join, your flocks to feed,
Calabrian with Lucanian mead,
Since stern inexorable fate,
Unbrib'd by gold mows small and great?
Gems, marble, iv'ry, busts, and plate,
Fine pictures, and rich robes of state,
There are who never can acquire,
There are who no such things desire.
Why of two brethern one consumes
His time in idling, play, perfumes,
Nor heeds rich Herod's palm-estate;
The other, miserably great,
From morn to night with fire and steel,
Seeks with his forest fields to deal;
Our guiding genius here on earth
That rules the planet of our birth,
The best can certify, ev'n he,
Our nature's true divinity,
That o'er our heads exerts his might
And cheques our lives with black and white.
I'll freely take with mod'rate hands
As much as exigence demands,
Nor will I waste a single care,
About th'opinion of my heir,
When at his coming he shall find
No augmentation left behind.
Yet I with measures thus advis'd,
Am still inclin'd to be appris'd,
How much the chearful and the free,
Is distant from the debauchee,
And what distinction exists
'Twixt misers and oeconomists.
For know there is a diff'rence quite,
Shou'd you waste ev'ry thing out-right,
Or only spread a plent'ous board,
Nor seek addition to your hoard:
But rather self and friend enjoy
By fits and starts, as when a boy,
Glad of the breaking-up retreat,
As shorter so by far more sweet.
Let dirty poverty, I pray,
Be far, yea very far away;
And be my vessel small or strong,
Let me go uniform along,
The wind, perhaps, is not so fair,
Sails swelling with the Northern air,
And yet I have not in my mouth
The tempest of the adverse South.
In force, in genius, figure, weight,
In virtue, station, and estate,
The last of them that foremost go,
But captain of the band below.
You are not covetous — go to —
But have you manhood to subdue
And put to flight all vice beside?
Clear is your breast from worldly pride?
Of wrath and dread of dying clear?
Do you at dreams and conj'rer sneer?
Mock wonders, witches, nightly elves?
And ev'n Thessalian charms themselves?
When heav'n another birth-day sends
Art grateful? do you spare your friends?
At the approach of hoary age,
Art more good-natur'd and more sage?
Why pluck one thorn from out your mind
And leave so many more behind?
If you no more your life pursue
With skill, make room for them that do.
You've play'd, and eat, and drank, your share,
'Tis time your journey to prepare;
Lest youth, that has more decent claim
To every kind of wanton game,
Shou'd, midst your cups o'ercharg'd, with scoff
Hiss your last scene, and drive you off.