Classic Poem

‘There are to whom my lines appear
Far too satiric and severe,
As driving things too great a length—
Others conceive there is no strength
In any thing I sing or say,
And that a thousand lines a day
May be spun out, if such as mine—
Trebatius, what do you opine?’—
‘Be quiet’—‘you advise, I see,
That I shou'd leave off poetry’—
‘Aye’—‘may I make a sorry end,
If you are not my worthiest friend,
But then I cannot rest, but start
A' nights'—‘why, if your sleep depart,
Good oiling is the best advice,
And then to swim cross Tiber thrice,
Or take strong liquor in your head,
Some hours before you go to bed.
But if so great an itch to write
Infect you—stand forth to recite
Augustus an unconquer'd Lord,
Sure to acquire a vast reward’—
‘Old boy—tho' fervent be my zeal,
Yet I inferior skill must feel;
Nor can a common pen presume
To draw the troops, which horrors plume,
And Gauls from shiver'd darts that bleed,
And Parthian dying off his steed.’
—‘Yet you might paint him just and brave,
The character Lucilius gave
To Scipio, and was therefore wise’—
‘I'll not be hindmost for the prize,
Cou'd I bring things to have a face:
Unless in proper time and place
The words of Horace will not speed,
To make a mighty chief give heed,
Who like a horse, when strok'd too hard
Will kick, at all times on his guard.’—
‘Yet better this—than to defame
Pantolabus of merry name,
And Nomentanus, son of shame;
While all men fear you and detest,
Ev'n those, not yet the public jest.’—
‘What shall I do? the dance is led
By brisk Milonius, when his head
Is hot, and all the lights augment;
Castor with horses is content,
But he that sprung from the same shell,
Prefers to box, or wrestle well,
For many men of many minds—
My spirit consolation finds
To scribble verses, on the plan
Lucilius chose, a better man
Than you or I can boast to be,
Whether in genius or degree.
He, as to faithful friends, he chose,
Did to his books his mind disclose,
And this was his amusement still,
If his affairs went well or ill.
Whence the whole tenor of his days,
His own descriptive page displays,
As if, enjoy'd or undergone,
His life were in a picture drawn.
Him follow I—no matter whom
You're pleased to call me here in Rome,
Lucanian, or Apulian wight,
For all Venusium has a right
The borders of them both to plough;
A race (as old records allow)
Were sent, and this same country held,
What time the Sabines were expell'd,
To such intent, that station'd here,
They might keep guard on this frontier,
If an Apulian disobey'd,
Or fierce Lucanian shou'd invade.
But this same pointed style of mine,
Shall not hurt any by design,
And like a scabbard-loving sword,
Mere personal defence afford;
For why shou'd I my weapon draw,
Secure from knaves against the law!
O sire and sov'reign Jove on high,
Grant this my steel in rust may lie,
Nor any person make a breach,
Upon the peace I love and teach!
But he, who such a deed shall dare,
(I give due warning to forbear)
Shall rue, and be a song and jest
Thro' all the city in request.—
If Cervius you to wrath inflame,
He threats to take the law—the dame,
Albucius keeps, with poison fights:
Judge Turius all his foes affrights,
Who can such damages denounce—
Thus how all creatures crack and bounce
Against their foes with all their force,
As nature orders in her course,
Observe with me—The wolf with fangs,
The bull with horns will give you pangs,
Whence but by instinct?—to the care
Of rakish Scaeva, who is heir,
Shou'd you his long-liv'd mother lend,
His pious hand will not offend.
Strange! but upon the very plan,
That wolves will never kick a man,
Nor bullock bite you, if he can:
He'll only take th'old lady off
With honey'd hemlock for her cough.
But to make short with our debate,
Whether a tranquil age await,
Or death already be my doom,
Poor, wealthy, shou'd I live in Rome,
Or be expell'd for God knows what,
Whate'er the colour of my lot,
I'll still write on'—‘O youth! I fear,
You cannot long continue here,
But that some favourite bustling slave
Of state, will send you to your grave.’—
‘What if the bold Lucilius durst,
To make these kind of verses first,
And all that borrow'd skin to bare,
Which make th'external man seem fair,
Tho' foul within—Did Laelius blame,
Or who from Afric won his name!
Griev'd they at what Metellus hurt,
Or Lupus tumbled in the dirt?
But he cou'd at the great ones gibe,
And lash the people tribe by tribe;
As he profess'd to favour none,
But Virtue and her friends alone.
With him when Scipio brave and great,
And Laelius gentle and sedate,
Retir'd into the rural scene,
[They] went to sport upon the green,
And strip'd them of their robes, and toil'd
At tennis, till the sallad boil'd.
Whate'er I am, tho' something worse
Than him in genius and in purse,
Envy must own, till she be griev'd,
That with the great I am receiv'd,
And aiming with the file to deal,
Will break her teeth against the steel,
Unless learn'd Sir, you should dissent'—
‘No, on the whole I am content.
But that you may be upon guard,
And lest you push your fun too hard,
Thro' inexperience in the laws,
You must observe there is a clause,
“If any man bad verse devise,
His neighbour's fame to scandalize,
He may be cast—an action lies.”’—
‘Granted—bad verse—but if my pen
Shou'd only write good verse—what then?
Shou'd a man send such lines abroad,
Judicious Caesar will applaud,
And shou'd he bring a wretch to shame,
Himself the while exempt from blame?’—
‘The cause will drop—the judges scoff—
And you may decently walk off.’