Classic Poem

In all the parts of earth, from farthest West,
And the Atlantic Isles, unto the East
And famous Ganges, few there be that know
What's truly good, and what is good, in show,
Without mistake: for what is't we desire,
Or fear discreetly? to whate'er aspire,
So throughly bless'd, but ever as we speed,
Repentance seals the very act, and deed?
The easy gods, mov'd by no other fate
Than our own pray'rs, whole kingdoms ruinate,
And undo families: thus strife, and war
Are the sword's prize, and a litigious bar
The gown's prime wish. Vain confidence to share
In empty honours and a bloody care
To be the first in mischief, makes him die
Fool'd 'twixt ambition and credulity.
An oily tongue with fatal, cunning sense,
And that sad virtue ever, eloquence,
Are th' other's ruin, but the common curse;
And each day's ill waits on the rich man's purse;
He, whose large acres and imprison'd gold
So far exceeds his father's store of old,
As British whales the dolphins do surpass.
In sadder times therefore, and when the laws
Of Nero's fiat reign'd, an armèd band
Seiz'd on Longinus, and the spacious land
Of wealthy Seneca, besieg'd the gates
Of Lateranus, and his fair estate
Divided as a spoil: in such sad feasts
Soldiers--though not invited--are the guests.
Though thou small pieces of the blessèd mine
Hast lodg'd about thee, travelling in the shine
Of a pale moon, if but a reed doth shake,
Mov'd by the wind, the shadow makes thee quake.
Wealth hath its cares, and want has this relief,
It neither fears the soldier nor the thief;
Thy first choice vows, and to the gods best known,
Are for thy stores' increase, that in all town
Thy stock be greatest, but no poison lies
I' th' poor man's dish; he tastes of no such spice.
Be that thy care, when, with a kingly gust,
Thou suck'st whole bowls clad in the gilded dust
Of some rich mineral, whilst the false wine
Sparkles aloft, and makes the draught divine.
Blam'st thou the sages, then? because the one
Would still be laughing, when he would be gone
From his own door; the other cried to see
His times addicted to such vanity?
Smiles are an easy purchase, but to weep
Is a hard act; for tears are fetch'd more deep.
Democritus his nimble lungs would tire
With constant laughter, and yet keep entire
His stock of mirth, for ev'ry object was
Addition to his store; though then--alas!--
Sedans, and litters, and our Senate gowns,
With robes of honour, fasces, and the frowns
Of unbrib'd tribunes were not seen; but had
He liv'd to see our Roman prætor clad
In Jove's own mantle, seated on his high
Embroider'd chariot 'midst the dust and cry
Of the large theatre, loaden with a crown,
Which scarce he could support--for it would down,
But that his servant props it--and close by
His page, a witness to his vanity:
To these his sceptre and his eagle add,
His trumpets, officers, and servants clad
In white and purple; with the rest that day,
He hir'd to triumph, for his bread, and pay;
Had he these studied, sumptuous follies seen,
'Tis thought his wanton and effusive spleen
Had kill'd the Abderite, though in that age
--When pride and greatness had not swell'd the stage
So high as ours--his harmless and just mirth
From ev'ry object had a sudden birth.
Nor was't alone their avarice or pride,
Their triumphs or their cares he did deride;
Their vain contentions or ridiculous fears,
But even their very poverty and tears.
He would at Fortune's threats as freely smile
As others mourn; nor was it to beguile
His crafty passions; but this habit he
By nature had, and grave philosophy.
He knew their idle and superfluous vows,
And sacrifice, which such wrong zeal bestows,
Were mere incendiaries; and that the gods,
Not pleas'd therewith, would ever be at odds.
Yet to no other air, nor better place
Ow'd he his birth, than the cold, homely Thrace;
Which shows a man may be both wise and good,
Without the brags of fortune, or his blood.
But envy ruins all: what mighty names
Of fortune, spirit, action, blood, and fame,
Hath this destroy'd? yea, for no other cause
Than being such; their honour, worth and place,
Was crime enough; their statues, arms and crowns
Their ornaments of triumph, chariots, gowns,
And what the herald, with a learnèd care,
Had long preserv'd, this madness will not spare.
So once Sejanus' statue Rome allow'd
Her demi-god, and ev'ry Roman bow'd
To pay his safety's vows; but when that face
Had lost Tiberius once, its former grace
Was soon eclips'd; no diff'rence made--alas!--
Betwixt his statue then, and common brass,
They melt alike, and in the workman's hand
For equal, servile use, like others stand.
Go, now fetch home fresh bays, and pay new vows
To thy dumb Capitol gods! thy life, thy house,
And state are now secur'd: Sejanus lies
I' th' lictors' hands. Ye gods! what hearts and eyes
Can one day's fortune change? the solemn cry
Of all the world is, "Let Sejanus die!"
They never lov'd the man, they swear; they know
Nothing of all the matter, when, or how,
By what accuser, for what cause, or why,
By whose command or sentence he must die.
But what needs this? the least pretence will hit,
When princes fear, or hate a favourite.
A large epistle stuff'd with idle fear,
Vain dreams, and jealousies, directed here
From Caprea does it; and thus ever die
Subjects, when once they grow prodigious high.
'Tis well, I seek no more; but tell me how
This took his friends? no private murmurs now?
No tears? no solemn mourner seen? must all
His glory perish in one funeral?
O still true Romans! State-wit bids them praise
The moon by night, but court the warmer rays
O' th' sun by day; they follow fortune still,
And hate or love discreetly, as their will
And the time leads them. This tumultuous fate
Puts all their painted favours out of date.
And yet this people that now spurn, and tread
This mighty favourite's once honour'd head,
Had but the Tuscan goddess, or his stars
Destin'd him for an empire, or had wars,
Treason, or policy, or some higher pow'r
Oppress'd secure Tiberius; that same hour
That he receiv'd the sad Gemonian doom,
Had crown'd him emp'ror of the world and Rome
But Rome is now grown wise, and since that she
Her suffrages, and ancient liberty
Lost in a monarch's name, she takes no care
For favourite or prince; nor will she share
Their fickle glories, though in Cato's days
She rul'd whole States and armies with her voice.
Of all the honours now within her walls,
She only dotes on plays and festivals.
Nor is it strange; for when these meteors fall,
They draw an ample ruin with them: all
Share in the storm; each beam sets with the sun,
And equal hazard friends and flatt'rers run.
This makes, that circled with distractive fear
The lifeless, pale Sejanus' limbs they tear,
And lest the action might a witness need,
They bring their servants to confirm the deed;
Nor is it done for any other end,
Than to avoid the title of his friend.
So falls ambitious man, and such are still
All floating States built on the people's will:
Hearken all you! whom this bewitching lust
Of an hour's glory, and a little dust
Swells to such dear repentance! you that can
Measure whole kingdoms with a thought or span!
Would you be as Sejanus? would you have,
So you might sway as he did, such a grave?
Would you be rich as he? command, dispose,
All acts and offices? all friends and foes?
Be generals of armies and colleague
Unto an emperor? break or make a league?
No doubt you would; for both the good and bad
An equal itch of honour ever had.
But O! what state can be so great or good,
As to be bought with so much shame and blood?
Alas! Sejanus will too late confess
'Twas only pride and greatness made him less:
For he that moveth with the lofty wind
Of Fortune, and Ambition, unconfin'd
In act or thought, doth but increase his height,
That he may loose it with more force and weight;
Scorning a base, low ruin, as if he
Would of misfortune make a prodigy.
Tell, mighty Pompey, Crassus, and O thou
That mad'st Rome kneel to thy victorious brow,
What but the weight of honours, and large fame
After your worthy acts, and height of name,
Destroy'd you in the end? The envious Fates,
Easy to further your aspiring States,
Us'd them to quell you too; pride, and excess.
In ev'ry act did make you thrive the less.
Few kings are guilty of grey hairs, or die
Without a stab, a draught, or treachery.
And yet to see him, that but yesterday
Saw letters first, how he will scrape, and pray;
And all her feast-time tire Minerva's ears
For fame, for eloquence, and store of years
To thrive and live in; and then lest he dotes,
His boy assists him with his box and notes.
Fool that thou art! not to discern the ill
These vows include; what, did Rome's consul kill
Her Cicero? what, him whose very dust
Greece celebrates as yet; whose cause, though just,
Scarce banishment could end; nor poison save
His free-born person from a foreign grave?
All this from eloquence! both head and hand
The tongue doth forfeit; petty wits may stand
Secure from danger, but the nobler vein
With loss of blood the bar doth often stain.

] Carmen
O fortunatam natam me Consule Romam. ] Ciceronianum
]

Had all been thus, thou might'st have scorn'd the sword
Of fierce Antonius; here is not one word
Doth pinch; I like such stuff, 'tis safer far
Than thy Philippics, or Pharsalia's war.
What sadder end than his, whom Athens saw
At once her patriot, oracle, and law?
Unhappy then is he, and curs'd in stars
Whom his poor father, blind with soot and scars,
Sends from the anvil's harmless chine, to wear
The factious gown, and tire his client's ear
And purse with endless noise. Trophies of war,
Old rusty armour, with an honour'd scar,
And wheels of captiv'd chariots, with a piece
Of some torn British galley, and to these
The ensign too, and last of all the train
The pensive pris'ner loaden with his chain,
Are thought true Roman honours; these the Greek
And rude barbarians equally do seek.
Thus air, and empty fame, are held a prize
Beyond fair virtue; for all virtue dies
Without reward; and yet by this fierce lust
Of fame, and titles to outlive our dust,
And monuments--though all these things must die
And perish like ourselves--whole kingdoms lie
Ruin'd and spoil'd: put Hannibal i' th' scale,
What weight affords the mighty general?
This is the man, whom Afric's spacious land
Bounded by th' Indian Sea, and Nile's hot sand
Could not contain--Ye gods! that give to men
Such boundless appetites, why state you them
So short a time? either the one deny,
Or give their acts and them eternity.
All Æthiopia, to the utmost bound
Of Titan's course,--than which no land is found
Less distant from the sun--with him that ploughs
That fertile soil where fam'd Iberus flows,
Are not enough to conquer; pass'd now o'er
The Pyrrhene hills, the Alps with all its store
Of ice, and rocks clad in eternal snow,
--As if that Nature meant to give the blow--
Denies him passage; straight on ev'ry side
He wounds the hill, and by strong hand divides
The monstrous pile; nought can ambition stay.
The world and Nature yield to give him way.
And now pass'd o'er the Alps, that mighty bar
'Twixt France and Rome, fear of the future war
Strikes Italy; success and hope doth fire
His lofty spirits with a fresh desire.
All is undone as yet--saith he--unless
Our Pænish forces we advance, and press
Upon Rome's self; break down her gates and wall,
And plant our colours in Suburra's vale.
O the rare sight! if this great soldier we
Arm'd on his Getick elephant might see!
But what's the event? O glory, how the itch
Of thy short wonders doth mankind bewitch!
He that but now all Italy and Spain
Had conquer'd o'er, is beaten out again;
And in the heart of Afric, and the sight
Of his own Carthage, forc'd to open flight.
Banish'd from thence, a fugitive he posts
To Syria first, then to Bithynia's coasts,
Both places by his sword secur'd, though he
In this distress must not acknowledg'd be;
Where once a general he triumphed, now
To show what Fortune can, he begs as low.
And thus that soul which through all nations hurl'd
Conquest and war, and did amaze the world,
Of all those glories robb'd, at his last breath,
Fortune would not vouchsafe a soldier's death.
For all that blood the field of Cannæ boasts,
And sad Apulia fill'd with Roman ghosts,
No other end--freed from the pile and sword--
Than a poor ring would Fortune him afford.
Go now, ambitious man! new plots design,
March o'er the snowy Alps and Apennine;
That, after all, at best thou may'st but be
A pleasing story to posterity!
The Macedon one world could not contain,
We hear him of the narrow earth complain,
And sweat for room, as if Seriphus Isle
Or Gyara had held him in exile;
But Babylon this madness can allay,
And give the great man but his length of clay.
The highest thoughts and actions under heaven
Death only with the lowest dust lays even.
It is believed--if what Greece writes be true--
That Xerxes with his Persian fleet did hew
Their ways through mountains, that their sails full blown
Like clouds hung over Athos and did drown
The spacious continent, and by plain force
Betwixt the mount and it, made a divorce;
That seas exhausted were, and made firm land,
And Sestos joined unto Abydos strand;
That on their march his Medes but passing by
Drank thee, Scamander, and Melenus dry;
With whatsoe'er incredible design
Sostratus sings, inspir'd with pregnant wine.
But what's the end? He that the other day
Divided Hellespont, and forc'd his way
Through all her angry billows, that assign'd
New punishments unto the waves, and wind,
No sooner saw the Salaminian seas
But he was driven out by Themistocles,
And of that fleet--supposed to be so great,
That all mankind shar'd in the sad defeat--
Not one sail sav'd, in a poor fisher's boat,
Chas'd o'er the working surge, was glad to float,
Cutting his desp'rate course through the tir'd flood,
And fought again with carcases, and blood.
O foolish mad Ambition! these are still
The famous dangers that attend thy will.
Give store of days, good Jove, give length of years,
Are the next vows; these with religious fears
And constancy we pay; but what's so bad
As a long, sinful age? what cross more sad
Than misery of years? how great an ill
Is that which doth but nurse more sorrow still?
It blacks the face, corrupt and dulls the blood,
Benights the quickest eye, distastes the food,
And such deep furrows cuts i' th' checker'd skin
As in th' old oaks of Tabraca are seen.
Youth varies in most things; strength, beauty, wit,
Are several graces; but where age doth hit
It makes no difference; the same weak voice,
And trembling ague in each member lies:
A general hateful baldness, with a curs'd
Perpetual pettishness; and, which is worst,
A foul, strong flux of humours, and more pain
To feed, than if he were to nurse again;
So tedious to himself, his wife, and friends,
That his own sons, and servants, wish his end.
His taste and feeling dies; and of that fire
The am'rous lover burns in, no desire:
Or if there were, what pleasure could it be,
Where lust doth reign without ability?
Nor is this all: what matters it, where he
Sits in the spacious stage? who can nor see,
Nor hear what's acted, whom the stiller voice
Of spirited, wanton airs, or the loud noise
Of trumpets cannot pierce; whom thunder can
But scarce inform who enters, or what man
He personates, what 'tis they act, or say?
How many scenes are done? what time of day?
Besides that little blood his carcase holds
Hath lost its native warmth, and fraught with colds
Catarrhs, and rheums, to thick black jelly turns,
And never but in fits and fevers burns.
Such vast infirmities, so huge a stock
Of sickness and diseases to him flock,
That Hyppia ne'er so many lovers knew,
Nor wanton Maura; physic never slew
So many patients, nor rich lawyers spoil
More wards and widows; it were lesser toil
To number out what manors and domains
Licinius' razor purchas'd: one complains
Of weakness in the back, another pants
For lack of breath, the thi