Classic Poem

Still shall I hear, and never quit the score,
Stunn'd with hoarse Codrus' Theseid , o'er and o'er?
Shall this man's elegies and t'other's play
Unpunish'd murther a long summer's day?
Huge Telephus , a formidable page,
Cries vengeance; and Orestes ' bulky rage,
Unsatisfied with margins closely writ,
Foams o'er the covers, and not finish'd yet
No man can take a more familiar note
Of his own home, than I of Vulcan's grot,
Or Mars his grove, or hollow winds that blow
From Ætna's top, or tortur'd ghosts below.
I know by rote the fam'd exploits of Greece;
The Centaurs' fury, and the Golden Fleece;
Thro' the thick shades th' eternal scribbler bawls,
And shakes the statues on their pedestals.
The best and worst on the same theme employs
His Muse, and plagues us with an equal noise.
Provok'd by these incorrigible fools,
I left declaiming in pedantic schools;
Where, with men-boys, I strove to get renown,
Advising Sylla to a private gown.
But, since the world with writing is possess'd,
I'll versify in spite; and do my best,
To make as much waste paper as the rest.
But why I lift aloft the Satire's rod,
And tread the path which fam'd Lucilius trod,
Attend the causes which my Muse have led:
When sapless eunuchs mount the marriagebed;
When mannish Maevia, that two-handed whore,
Astride on horseback hunts the Tuscan boar;
When all our lords are by his wealth outvied,
Whose razor on my callow beard was tried;
When I behold the spawn of conquer'd Nile,
Crispinus, both in birth and manners vile,
Pacing in pomp, with cloak of Tyrian dye,
Chang'd oft a day for needless luxury;
And finding oft occasion to be fann'd,
Ambitious to produce his lady-hand;
Charg'd with light summer-rings his fingers sweat,
Unable to support a gem of weight —
Such fulsome objects meeting everywhere,
'Tis hard to write, but harder to forbear.
To view so lewd a town, and to refrain,
What hoops of iron could my spleen contain!
When pleading Matho, borne abroad for air,
With his fat paunch fills his new-fashion'd chair,
And after him the wretch in pomp convey'd,
Whose evidence his lord and friend betray'd,
And but the wish'd occasion does attend
From the poor nobles the last spoils to rend,
Whom ev'n spies dread as their superior fiend,
And bribe with presents; or, when presents fail,
They send their prostituted wives for bail:
When night-performance holds the place of merit,
And brawn and back the next of kin disherit;
For such good parts are in preferment's way,
The rich old madam never fails to pay
Her legacies, by nature's standard giv'n,
One gains an ounce, another gains eleven:
A dear-bought bargain, all things duly weigh'd,
For which their thrice concocted blood is paid:
With looks as wan, as he who in the brake
At unawares has trod upon a snake;
Or play'd at Lyons a declaiming prize,
For which the vanquish'd rhetorician dies.
What indignation boils within my veins,
When perjur'd guardians, proud with impious gains,
Choke up the streets, too narrow for their trains!
Whose wards, by want betray'd, to crimes are led
Too foul to name, too fulsome to be read!
When he who pill'd his province scapes the laws,
And keeps his money, tho' he lost his cause:
His fine begg'd off, contemns his infamy,
Can rise at twelve, and get him drunk ere three;
Enjoys his exile, and, condemn'd in vain,
Leaves thee, prevailing province, to complain!
Such villainies rous'd Horace into wrath;
And 't is more noble to pursue his path,
Than an old tale of Diomede to repeat,
Or lab'ring after Hercules to sweat,
Or wand'ring in the winding maze of Crete;
Or with the winged smith aloft to fly,
Or flutt'ring perish with his foolish boy.
With what impatience must the Muse behold
The wife by her procuring husband sold?
For tho' the law makes null th' adulterer's deed
Of lands to her, the cuckold may succeed;
Who his taught eyes up to the ceiling throws,
And sleeps all over but his wakeful nose.
When he dares hope a colonel's command,
Whose coursers kept, ran out his father's land;
Who, yet a stripling, Nero's chariot drove,
Whirl'd o'er the streets, while his vain master strove
With boasted art to please his eunuchlove.
Would it not make a modest author dare
To draw his table-book within the square,
And fill with notes, when lolling at his ease,
Maecenas-like, the happy rogue he sees
Borne by six wearied slaves in open view,
Who cancel'd an old will and forg'd a new;
Made wealthy at the small expense of signing
With a wet seal, and a fresh interlining?
The lady, next, requires a lashing line,
Who squeez'd a toad into her husband's wine:
So well the fashionable med'cine thrives,
That now 't is practic'd ev'n by country wives;
Pois'ning, without regard of fame or fear:
Aud spotted corps are frequent on the bier.
Wouldst thou to honors and preferments climb,
Be bold in mischief, dare some mighty crime,
Which dungeons, death, or banishment deserves:
For virtue is but dryly prais'd, and sterves.
Great men, to great crimes, owe their plate emboss'd,
Fair palaces, and furniture of cost;
And high commands: a sueaking sin is lost.
Who can behold that rank old lecher keep
His son's corrupted wife, and hope to sleep?
Or that male-harlot, or that unfledg'd boy,
Eager to sin, before he can enjoy?
If nature could not, anger would indite
Such woful stuff as I or S — — Il write.
Count from the time, since old Deucalion's boat,
Rais'd by the flood, did on Parnassus float;
And scarcely mooring on the cliff, implor'd
An oracle how man might be restor'd;
When soften'd stones and vital breath ensued,
And virgins naked were by lovers view'd;
Whatever since that Golden Age was done,
What humankind desires, and what they shun,
Rage, passions, pleasures, impotence of will,
Shall this satirical collection fill.
What age so large a crop of vices bore,
Or when was avarice extended more?
When were the dice with more profusion thrown?
The well-fill'd fob not emptied now alone,
But gamesters for whole patrimonies play;
The steward brings the deeds which must convey
The lost estate: what more than madness reigns,
When one short sitting many hundreds drains,
And not enough is left him to supply
Board-wages, or a footman's livery?
What age so many summer seats did see?
Or which of our forefathers far'd so well,
As on seven dishes, at a private meal?
Clients of old were feasted; now a poor
Divided dole is dealt at th' outward door,
Which by the hungry rout is soon dispatch'd:
The paltry largess, too, severely watch'd
Ere given; and every face observ'd with care,
That no intruding guest usurp a share.
Known, you receive: the crier calls aloud.
Our old nobility of Trojan blood,
Who gape among the crowd for their precarious food.
The praetors' and the tribunes' voice is heard;
The freedman justles, and will be preferr'd;
" First come, first serv'd, " he cries; " and I, in spite
Of your great lordships, will maintain my right.
Tho' born a slave, tho' my torn ears are bor'd,
'Tis not the birth, 'tis money makes the lord.
The rents of five fair houses I receive;
What greater honors can the purple give?
The poor patrician is reduc'd to keep
In melancholy walks a grazier's sheep:
Not Pallas nor Licinius had my treasure;
Then let the sacred tribunes wait my leisure.
Once a poor rogue, 't is true, I trod the street,
And trudg'd to Rome upon my naked feet:
Gold is the greatest god; tho' yet we see
No temples rais'd to Money's majesty,
No altars fuming to her pow'r divine,
Such as to Valor, Peace, and Virtue shine,
And Faith, and Concord: where the stork on high
Seems to salute her infant progeny,
Presaging pious love with her auspicious cry. "
But since our knights and senators account
To what their sordid begging vails amount,
Judge what a wretched share the poor attends,
Whose whole subsistence on those alms depends!
Their household fire, their raiment, and their food,
Prevented by those harpies; when a wood
Of litters thick besiege the donor's gate,
And begging lords and teeming ladies wait
The promis'd dole: nay, some have learn'd the trick
To beg for absent persons; feign them sick,
Close mew'd in their sedans, for fear of air;
And for their wives produce an empty chair.
" This is my spouse: dispatch her with her share.
'Tis Galla. " " Let her ladyship but peep. "
" No, sir, 't is pity to disturb her sleep. "
Such fine employments our whole days divide:
The salutations of the morning tide
Call up the sun; those ended, to the hall
We wait the patron, hear the lawyers bawl;
Then to the statues; where, amidst the race
Of conqu'ring Rome, some Arab shews his face,
Inscrib'd with titles, and profanes the place;
Fit to be piss'd against, and somewhat more.
The great man, home conducted, shuts his door:
Old clients, wearied out with fruitless care,
Dismiss their hopes of eating, and despair;
Tho' much against the grain, forc'd to retire,
Buy roots for supper, and provide a fire.
Meantime his lordship lolls within at ease,
Pamp'ring his paunch with foreign rarities;
Both sea and land are ransack'd for the feast,
And his own gut the sole invited guest.
Such plate, such tables, dishes dress'd so well,
That whole estates are swallow'd at a meal.
Ev'n parasites are banish'd from his board:
(At once a sordid and luxurious lord:)
Prodigious throat, for which whole boars are dress'd;
(A creature form'd to furnish out a feast.)
But present punishment pursues his maw,
When, surfeited and swell'd, the peacock raw
He bears into the bath; whence want of breath,
Repletions, apoplex, intestate death.
His fate makes table talk, divulg'd with scorn,
And he, a jest, into his grave is borne.
No age can go beyond us; future times
Can add no farther to the present crimes.
Our sons but the same things can wish and do;
Vice is at stand, and at the highest flow.
Then, Satire, spread thy sails; take all the winds can blow.
Some may, perhaps, demand what Muse can yield
Sufficient strength for such a spacious field;
From whence can be deriv'd so large a vein,
Bold truths to speak, and spoken to maintain,
When godlike freedom is so far bereft
The noble mind, that scarce the name is left.
Ere scandalum magnatum was begot,
No matter if the great forgave or not:
But if that honest license now you take,
If into rogues omnipotent you rake,
Death is your doom, impal'd upon astake,
Smear'd o'er with wax, and set on fire, to light
The streets, and make a dreadful blaze by night.
Shall they, who drench'd three uncles in a draught
Of pois'nous juice, be then in triumph brought,
Make lanes among the people where they go,
And, mounted high on downy chariots, throw
Disdainful glances on the crowd below?
Be silent, and beware, if such you see;
'T is defamation but to say: " That's he! "
Against bold Turnus the great Trojan arm,
Amidst their strokes the poet gets no harm:
Achilles may in epic verse be slain,
And none of all his Myrmidons complain:
Hylas may drop his pitcher, none will cry;
Not if he drown himself for company:
But when Lucilius brandishes his pen,
And flashes in the face of guilty men,
A cold sweat stands in drops on ev'ry part;
And rage succeeds to tears, revenge to smart.
Muse, be advis'd; 't is past consid'ring time,
When enter'd once the dangerous lists of rhyme:
Since none the living villains dare implead,
Arraign them in the persons of the dead.