Classic Poem

Cratinus, Eupolis, with these
And others Aristophanes,
Who made their comedies of yore,
If any man on any score
Was worthy of a shameful note
They branded him, in what they wrote,
With perfect freedom and by name,
As thief, adult'rous son of shame,
Cut-throat, or any otherwise
Disgrac'd — with them Lucilius vies,
On them depends upon the whole
But changing feet, and measure droll;
Keen — but still making verses halt,
For this was his peculiar fault,
Two hundred verses in an hour
(As a great work to shew his pow'r)
Oft wou'd he dictate to his guest,
Still standing hip-hop for a jest.
Mean-time, while muddy was his lay,
There was, what one wou'd wish away —
Verbose — too indolent to bear
The toil of writing and the care,
That is the care of writing clean ,
For much is not the thing I mean.
But here Crispinus' wrath I whet
To challenge me at any bet.
" Your tablets take, this instant take,
A trial if you choose to make,
Appoint your umpires, hour and place,
To see who writes the greatest pace" —
The gods have done the best of all
To make my spirit poor and small,
Who seldom speak and then but spare,
While you may imitate the air,
That's in the leathern bellows pent,
There puffs and blows and is not spent,
Until the iron's soft and red —
The happy Fannius sure is sped,
Who in the library has thrust
Unbid, both manuscripts and bust.
While not a soul will read my verse
Who am too tim'rous to rehearse
My works in publick — now the cause
Why few will give, this kind applause
Is that the major part are wrong —
Take whom you will from out the throng;
Or avarice perverts his ways,
Or desperate ambition sways.
One's mad upon his neighbours wives,
In other filth some waste their lives.
This on his silver side-board glotes,
Albius on brazen statues doats:
One with her merchandize will run,
From eastern to the western sun,
Thro' every ill with sails unfurl'd,
Like dust that in the wind is whirl'd,
Rush headlong, lest a want should come
To take a farthing from his sum,
Or to enlarge his stock — all these
The muse alarms, the bards displease.
" There's hay upon his horn — fly, fly,
Can he but raise a laugh, they cry,
He'll not his father's failings brook,
And, what's once enter'd in his book,
To young and old he'll publick make
Who come from bake house or the lake."
But come my refutation hear,
As I in my behalf appear.
First then I will myself reject
From men of the poetic sect;
'Tis not sufficient for the name,
That merely metre we can frame.
Now if a fellow writes like me
As near to prose, as verse can be,
You must not think he has the vein —
But one of a diviner strain,
Who has a genius and a tongue,
By which eternal things are sung;
On him this glorious praise confer —
Hence things of comic character
If fairly they can be giv'n out
As poems some have made a doubt:
Because both words, and things of course,
Have neither spirit, fire, or force;
Men's talk, or, if from talk disjoin'd,
By measure of prosaic kind.
But yet you'll say the sire's in rage
Because his son the whores engage,
Who for their sakes neglects a wife,
And all the wealth and sweets of life,
A drunkard and (O shame to say)
With flambeaus in the blaze of day.
What? wou'd the loose Pomponius hear
One word less grand, and less severe,
Granting his father were alive?
Hence 'twill not answer to contrive
The verses in a style compleat,
All which, if you displace the feet,
A peasant in his wrath might say,
As well as Demea in the play.
If from those lines I now indite,
Or those Lucilius us'd to write,
The measure and the pause you take,
And the last words the former make,
You cou'd not find, but wholly lose
The members of the mangled muse;
Not so if Ennius thus you use.
WHAT TIME DIRE DISCORD BURST THE BARS ,
AND FORC'D THEIR IRON PORTS OF MARS .
So far of this — another place
Shall be reserv'd by me to trace
If comedy's by scene and plot
A poem fairly term'd or not.
But now I only shall debate,
Whether this kind you justly hate.
Sharp Sulcius and Caprius hoarse,
As their indictment they enforce
Both to the gang great terror give,
But if a man discreetly live,
He may contemn them both — Tho' you
Like Coelus, and like Birrus too,
Upon the road have made full free,
I am not Caprius — fear not me.
To shop, nor stall my volumes come,
There for the sweaty mob to thumb,
Nor for Hermogenes to hum.
I never but to friends repeat,
Nor that, but when they much intreat;
Not any where to any croud —
Many there are, that read aloud
Ev'n in the market, or the springs
Where people bathe — when he that sings
May by the closeness of the place
Give to his voice a finer grace.
To coxcombs this a grateful task,
Who never have the sense to ask
About the purpose, or the time —
But here they brand me with the crime
Of hurting with a bad intent —
From whence can this 'gainst me be meant?
Is any then your voucher, say,
With whom I've liv'd unto this day?
He, who backbites his absent friend,
Nay more, who does not still defend
His fame, and stand on his behalf;
He, who wou'd raise a spiteful laugh,
Who no loquacity forbears,
And what he never saw declares,
And he, whose tongue is not controul'd
By what in confidence is told,
That fellow is a black in grain,
From him, O Roman youth, refrain:
You'll often see twelve guests repose
Upon three couches — one of those
Ere he has sup'd must needs asperse
All beings of the universe,
Except the man, that rules the roast,
And him, ev'n him he'll lash the most,
When Bacchus, who the truth reveals,
From his free heart all secrets steals.
This man to you, who hate a black,
Seems witty with a pretty knack.
If I one time upon a prank
Have said too frolicksome and frank
That while Rufillus clogs the sense ,
Gorgonius has the goat's offence;
Is churlish envy, then my vice?
If any mention shou'd arise
Of things Petillus stole away,
Made in your presence — you wou'd say,
The man thro' habit to defend,
Petillus always was my friend,
And from a child we were as one,
Much for my asking has he done,
And I rejoice he lives in peace,
Because it was a strange release
He from the gallows lately had —
This is rank poyson very bad,
Sheer envy, which shall have no part
Or in my writings, or my heart,
If I can promise once for all
Or understand myself at all.
If ought too freely I have spoke,
Or been, perhaps, too much in joke,
Your kind indulgence you'll allow,
For that I shall inform you now.
The best of fathers taught me this,
That I shou'd keep from things amiss,
By certain shrewd remarks, he made —
Me, when he wanted to persuade
To thrift, and frugally to live,
Content with what he had to give;
" Do you not see (he wou'd observe)
How Albius' son is like to starve,
And Barrus too reduc'd and low —
These are great documents to show
The mis'ry of a substance spent."
Whenever it was his intent
To fright me from loose girls (he cry'd)
" Let not Sectanus be your guide,"
Lest I should seek the wedded dame,
When I might have a lawful flame:
" Trebonius, hamper'd in the fact,
Has not his character compact:
Philosophy (says he) my son,
May teach you what to seek and shun,
And render reasons more than I;
Let it suffice me to apply
Old rules, traditionally gain'd,
And keep your life and fame unstain'd,
As long as you a tutor need;
The riper age will soon succeed
To strengthen every thought and limb,
And then without your corks you'll swim."
'Twas thus he form'd my tender mind,
And if he any thing enjoin'd,
" For this affair you have (says he)
A laudable authority;"
Then wou'd he cite, the point to clench,
One of the sages of the bench.
But did he any thing restrain? —
" Can you (says he) a doubt maintain,
But such a thing, in such a case,
Is vain, and nothing but disgrace,
Since He or they are come to shame
For doing of the very same! —
As ev'ry neighbour's funeral frights
Sick men with greedy appetites,
And makes them spare themselves, for fear
Their own interment should be near:
So tender minds are often warn'd
While others for their vice are scorn'd."
Thus instituted I am free
From vices of the first degree,
That post a mortal to his grave,
But small and venial faults I have;
And these, perhaps, maturer years,
Sincere advice of my compeers,
And due reflexions on the past
May totally reduce at last:
And in my bed, and when I stir,
I am not wanting to confer
Thus with myself, " this thing is well —
By doing this I shall excell —
By aiming at some certain end
I shall be better with my friend —
Such a transaction was oblique,
Shall I then ever do the like?"
All this unto myself I say —
When idle with my pen I play:
This is amongst those faults I class't
But as of an inferiour cast;
Which if you will not freely own
As pardonable, be it known,
That all the vast poetic band,
Now, more than ever, is at hand,
And like the Pharisee and Scribe
We'll force you to embrace our tribe.