Classic Poem

What here the Sculptor's Art unravels,
Shall furnish out the Muses Travels.

Vespasian 's Work, — — how old a Date!
Its Wastes still boast imperial State;
Fam'd Scene of many a dreadful Fray,
Where Folks were met to fight and slay.
Sometimes besmear'd and sleek with Oyl,
Here, Youths wou'd risque a gentler Foil;
Nor wou'd the Flow'r of Rome refuse
The wrestling Exercise to use;
A taking Pattern, to propose
To our slim Race of modern Beaus.

Methinks I hear 'em, at the Mention,
Cry " Phaugh! how filthy an Invention!
" Friend! of your Roman never tell us ;
" Split me! I hate those antient Fellows;
" A Sport for ev'ry base Rascallion,
" My Taste is moderner Italian;
" To Porters make your fine Recitals,
" Fit Audience — Wrestle! — stap my Vitals! —

Well, let the Fop unenvied dote
On the dull Eunuch's squeaking Note.
What Rome 's brave Genius could inspire,
The manly Briton will admire;
Robust as them we seem design'd,
And form'd as elegant of Mind. — —
What Cost her Natives must bestow
On this one Scene of antient Show!
Its Walls what Ranks of Arches grace!
How wide a Circle spreads its Base!
Grand (ev'n while desolate and drear)
Its height of tott'ring Roofs appear.
If the meer Shell can Wonder win,
Auguster Sights must please within;
Nice Foplings may decline the Venture,
Curious, I'll stretch a Step and enter.

Bless me, what's here! what hodge-podge Ruin!
This the prais'd Pile I late was viewing?
Of broken Floors, and Caverns deep,
And shatter'd Stones, this hideous Heap!
Vile Place, more fit for Beasts than Men,
Rome ! — phaugh! I think 'tis Daniel 's Den.

Stop — let's observe — How vast the Building!
In troth, I think they've wall'd a Field in;
Look — tow'rd the Center have you — seen — a
Rough Pavement? — that was their Arena ,
The Stage where Combatants , I wist,
Of old went at it Hand to Fist.
There, in the Fencing Science taught,
Their desp'rate Gladiators fought,
Or Beasts engag'd (like Cater-couzins)
Let loose to eat 'em up by Dozens.
There — — out of all those ugly Nooks
They issu'd: Tygers, Bears, — — adzooks?
While Senators, on upper Benches,
Sat safely cuddling of their Wenches;
And rang'd Plebeian Crouds, unmov'd,
The horrid Spectacle approv'd,
Heedless what Mischief in the Show
Befel poor fighting Rogues below.
Some wounded — — those by Monsters fed on —
This a Nose off — — that ne'er a Head on — —
The common Fate of Gladiators , — —
Fine Times, when Monarchs were Spectators!

Here — — from these Pipes, by Age decay'd,
Observe — — their Currents were convey'd;
Which serv'd, when former Sports were spent,
Their Water-fights to represent,
By Authors nam'd — (a Pesters take ye!
Why what, ye Muses!) — their Naumachia:
Where Soldiers arm'd made dreadful Charges,
From broad-side Hulks, and leaky Barges,
Brought thro' this Arch — and this — and this thro'
Holes, now — a Dog wou'd scarcely p — ss thro'. —
Hang this queer, gloomy, dirty Station,
I'm weary of the Speculation.

Let me, from Scenes so dread, repair
Back to my Country's milder Air;
There visit fam'd Bear-Garden Heroes,
From whose sham Fights ne'er Cause of Fear rose,
Or trip to view some valiant Hibern ,
At Sutton 's — neighb'ring Seat to Tyburn ;
Where gentle Butchers oft resort,
That Brotherhood's peculiar Sport.
Here may I sit, and fear no slaying,
Mid' those meek Masters of Sword-playing;
Lay Wagers, laugh at Figg and Stokes ,
And all our harmless fighting Fo'ks.
Rome 's fencing Sparks, say what you please,
In Wit fell vastly short of these;
Those met to kill , or to be kill'd,
Ours — but to have their Pockets fill'd, —
Shame of their boasted Roman Sense!
To Wisdom they've the best Pretence,
Who ne'er in those Encounters fight,
To die — but get their Living by't.