Would'st thou prefer him to some man? Suppose
I dipp'd among the worst, and Statius chose?
Which of the two would thy wise head declare
The trustier tutor to an orphan heir?

Or, put it thus:-Unfold to Statius, straight,
What to Jove's ear thou didst impart of late:
He'll stare, and, "O good Jupiter!" will cry;
"Canst thou indulge him in this villainy !"
And think'st thou, Jove himself, with patience then
Can hear a prayer condemn'd by wicked men?
That, void of care, he lolls supine in state,
And leaves his business to be done by fate?
Because his thunder splits some burley-tree,
And is not darted at thy house and thee?
Or that his vengeance falls not at the time,
Just at the perpetration of thy crime,
And makes thee a sad object of our eyes,
Fit for Ergenna's prayer and sacrifice?
What well-fed offering to appease the god,
What powerful present to procure a nod,

Hast thou in store? What bribe has thou prepar'd,
To pull him, thus unpunish'd, by the beard?

Our superstitions with our life begin:
Th' obscene old grandam, or the next of kin,
The new-born infant from the cradle takes,
And first of spittle a lustration makes:
Then in the spawl her middle-finger dips,
Anoints the temples, forehead, and the lips,
Pretending force of magic to prevent,
By virtue of her nasty excrement.

Then dandles him, with many a mutter'd prayer
That Heaven would make him some rich miser's
Lucky to ladies, and in time a king;

[heir,

Which to ensure, she adds a length of navel-string.
But no fond nurse is fit to make a prayer:
And Jove, if Jove be wise, will never hear;
Not though she prays in white, with lifted hands:
A body made of brass the crone demands

For her lov'd nursling, strung with nerves of wire,
Tough to the last, and with no toil to tire:
Unconscionable vows, which, when we use,
We teach the gods, in reason, to refuse.
Suppose they were indulgent to thy wish:
Yet the fat entrails, in the spacious dish,
Would stop the grant: the very over-care,
And nauseous pomp, would hinder half the prayer.
Thou hop'st, with sacrifice of oxen slain,
To compass wealth, and bribe the god of gain,
To give thee flocks and herds, with large increase;
Fool! to expect them from a bullock's grease!
And think'st that, when the fatten'd flames aspire,
Thou seest th' accomplishment of thy desire!
"Now, now, my bearded harvest gilds the plain,
The scanty folds can scarce my sheep contain,
And showers of gold come pouring in amain!"
Thus dreams the wretch, and vainly thus dreams on,
Till his lank purse declares his money gone.

Should I present them with rare figur'd plate, Or gold as rich in workmanship as weight; O how thy rising heart would throb and beat, And thy left side, with trembling pleasure, sweat! Thou measur'st by thyself the powers divine; Thy gods are burnish'd gold, and silver is their shrine.

Thy puny godlings of inferior race,

Whose humble statues are content with brass,
Should some of these, in visions purg'd from phlegm,
Foretel events, or in a morning dream;
Ev'n those thou would'st in veneration hold;
And, if not faces, give them beards of gold.

The priests in temples, now, no longer care
For Saturn's brass, or Numa's earthern ware;
Or vestal urns, in each religious rite:
This wicked gold has put them all to flight.
O souls, in whom no heavenly fire is found,
Fat minds, and ever groveling on the ground!
We bring our manners to the blest abodes,
And think what pleases us must please the gods.
Of oil and cassia one th' ingredients takes,
And, of the mixture, a rich ointment makes:
Another finds the way to dye in grain;

And makes Calabrian wool receive the Tyrian stain;
Or from the shells their orient treasure takes,
Or, for their golden ore, in rivers rakes;
Then melts the mass: all these are vanities!
Yet still some profit from their pains may rise:
But tell me, priest, if I may be so bold,
What are the gods the better for this gold?
The wretch that offers from his wealthy store
These presents, bribes the powers to give him more
As maids to Venus offer baby-toys,

To bless the marriage-bed with girls and boys.
But let us for the gods a gift prepare,

Which the great man's great charges cannot bear?'
A soul, where laws both human and divine,
In practice more than speculation shine:
A genuine virtue, of a vigorous kind,
Pure in the last recesses of the mind:
When with such offerings to the gods I come,
A cake, thus given, is worth a hecatomb.

THE THIRD SATIRE OF

PERSIUS.

THE ARGUMENT.

OUR author has made two satires concerning study; the first and the third: the first related to men; this to young students, whom he desired to be educated in the stoic philosophy: he himself sustains the person of the master, or preceptor, in this admirable satire; where he upbraids the youth of sloth, and negligence in learning. Yet he begins with one scholar reproaching his fellow-students with late rising to their books, After which he takes upon him the other part of the teacher. And addressing himself particularly to young noblemen, tells them, that by reason of their high birth, and the great possessions of their fathers, they are careless of adorning their minds with precepts of moral philosophy and withal, inculcates to them the miseries which will attend them in the whole course of their life, if they do not apply themselves betimes to the knowledge of virtue, and the end of their creation, which he pathetically insinuates to them. The title of this satire, in some ancient manuscript, was the Reproach of Idleness; though in others of the scholiast it is inscribed, Against the Luxury and Vices of the Rich. In both of which the intention of the poet is pursued; but principally in the former.

[I remember I translated this satire, when I was a king's scholar at Westminster-school, for a Thursday-night's exercise; and believe that it,

And all the offices of that estate

Perform; and with thy prudence guide thy fate. Pray justly, to be heard: nor more desire Than what the decencies of life require. Learn what thou ow'st thy country, and thy friend; What's requisite to spare, and what to spend : Learn this; and after, envy not the store Of the greas'd advocate, that grinds the poor: Fat fees from the defended Umbrian draws; And only gains the wealthy client's cause. To whom the Marsians more provision send, Than he and all his family can spend. Gammons, that give a relish to the taste, And potted fowl, and fish, come in so fast, That, ere the first is out, the second stinks; And mouldy mother gathers on the drinks. But, here, some captain of the land or fleet, Stout of his hands, but of a soldier's wit; Cries, "I have sense to serve my turn, in store; And he's a rascal who pretends to more. Damme, whate'er those book-learn'd blockheads Solon's the veryest fool in all the play. Top-heavy drones, and always looking down, (As over-ballasted within the crown!) Muttering betwixt their lips some mystic thing, Which, well examin'd, is flat conjuring, Meer madmen's dreams: for what the schools have Is only this, that nothing can be brought [taught, From nothing; and, what is, can ne'er he turn'd to Is it for this they study? to grow pale, And miss the pleasures of a glorious meal ? For this, in rags accouter'd, are they seen, And made the may-game of the public spleen ?" Proceed, my friend, and rail; but hear me tell A story, which is just thy parallel.

[say,

[nought.

A spark, like thee, of the man-killing trade,
Fell sick, and thus to his physician said:
"Methinks I am not right in every part;
I feel a kind of trembling at my heart:
My pulse unequal, and my breath is strong;
Besides a filthy fur upon my tongue."
The doctor heard him, exercis'd his skill:
And, after, bid him for four days be still.
Three days he took good counsel, and began
To mend, and look like a recovering man:
The fourth, he could not hold from drink; but sends
His boy to one of his old trusty friends:
Adjuring him, by all the powers divine,
To pity his distress, who could not dine
Without a flaggon of his healing wine.
He drinks a swilling draught; and, lin'd within,
Will supple in the bath his outward skin:
Whom should he find but his physician there,
*Who, wisely, bade him once again beware.
"Sir, you look wan, you hardly draw your breath;
Drinking is dangerous, and the bath is death.”
""Tis nothing," says the fool. "But," says the
friend,

"This nothing, sir, will bring you to your end.
Do I not see your dropsy belly swell?
Your yellow skin?""No more of that; I'm well.
I have already bury'd two or three
That stood betwixt a fair estate and me,
And, doctor, I may live to bury thee.

Thou tell'st me, I look ill; and thou look'st worse." "I've done," says the physician; "take your course."

The laughing sot, like all unthinking men, Bathes and gets drunk; then bathes, and drinks again:

His throat half throttled with corrupted phlegm,
And breathing through his jaws a belching steam:
Amidst his cups with fainting shivering seiz'd,
His limbs disjointed, and all o'er diseas'd,
His hand refuses to sustain the bowl;
And his teeth chatter, and his eyeballs roll:
Till, with his meat, he vomits out his soul:
Then trumpets, torches, and a tedious crew
Of hireling mourners, for his funeral due,
Our dear departed brother lies in state,

His heels stretch'd out, and pointing to the gate:
And slaves, now manumis'd, on their dead master

wait.

They hoist him on the bier, and deal the dole:

And there's an end of a luxurious fool.
But what's thy fulsome parable to me?
My body is from all diseases free:

My temperate pulse does regularly beat;
Feel, and be satisfy'd, my hands and feet:
These are not cold, nor those opprest with heat.
Or lay thy hand upon my naked heart.
And thou shalt find me hale in every part.

I grant this true: but, still, the deadly wound
Is in thy soul; 'tis there thou art not sound.
Say, when thou seest a heap of tempting gold,
Or a more tempting harlot dost behold;
Then, when she casts on thee a side-long glance,
Then try thy heart, and tell me if it dance,

Some coarse cold sallad is before thee set; Bread with the bran, perhaps, and broken meat; Fall on, and try thy appetite to eat. These are not dishes for thy dainty tooth: What, hast thou got an ulcer in thy mouth? Why stand'st thou picking? Is thy palate sore? That beet and radishes will make thee roar? Such is th' unequal temper of thy mind; Thy passions in extremes, and unconfin'd: Thy hair so bristles with unmanly fears, As fields of corn, that rise in bearded ears. And, when thy cheeks with flushing fury glow, The rage of boiling caldrons is more slow; When fed with fuel and with flames below. With foam upon thy lips and sparkling eyes, Thou say'st, and dost, in such outrageous wise; That mad Orestes, if he saw the show, Would swear thou wert the madder of the two.

THE FOURTH SATIRE OF PERSIUS.

THE ARGUMENT.

Our author, living in the time of Nero, was contemporary and friend to the noble poet Lucan : both of them were sufficiently sensible, with all good men, how unskilfully he managed the commonwealth and perhaps might guess at his future tyranny, by some passages, during the latter part of his first five years; though he broke not out into his great excesses, while he was restrained by the counsels and authority of Seneca. Lucan has not spared him in the poem of his Pharsalia; for his very compliment looked asquint as well as Nero. Persius has been bolder, but with caution likewise. For here, in the person of young Alcibiades, he arraigns his ambition of meddling with state-affairs, without

judgment or experience. It is probable that he | makes Seneca, in this satire, sustain the part of Socrates, under a borrowed name; and, withal, discovers some secret vices of Nero, concerning his lust, his drunkenness, and his effeminacy, which had not yet arrived to public notice. He also reprehends the flattery of his courtiers, who endeavoured to make all his vices pass for virtues. Covetousness was undoubtedly none of his faults; but it is bere described as a veil cast over the true meaning of the poet, which was to satirize his prodigality and voluptuousness; to which he makes a transition. I find no instance in history of that emperor's being a pathic, though Persius seems to brand him with it. From the two dialogues of Plato, both called Alcibiades, the poet took the arguments of the second and third satires, but he inverted the order of them: for the third satire is taken from the first of those dialogues. The commentators, before Casaubon, were ignorant of our author's secret meaning; and thought ne had only written against young noblemen in general, who were too forward in aspiring to public magistracy: but this excellent scholiast has unraveled the whole mystery; and made it apparent, that the sting of this satire was particularly aimed at Nero.

WHOE'ER thou art, whose forward years are bent
On state affairs, the guide to government;
Hear, first, what Socrates of old has said
To the lov'd youth, whom he at Athens bred.
Tell me, thou pupil to great Pericles,
Our second hope, my Alcibiades,
What are the grounds, from whence thou dost pre-
To undertake, so young, so vast a care? [pare
Perhaps thy wit (a chance not often heard,
That parts and prudence should prevent the beard):
'Tis seldom seen, that senators so young
Know when to speak, and when to hold their
Sure thou art born to some peculiar fate; [tongue.
When the mad people rise against the state,
To look them into duty: and command
An awful silence with thy lifted hand.

Then to bespeak them thus: " Athenians, know
Against right reason all your counsels go,
This is not fair; nor profitable that;
Nor t'other question proper for debate."
But thou, no doubt, can'st set the business right,
And give each argument its proper weight:
Know'st, with an equal hand, to hold the scale:
Seest where the reasons pinch, and where they fail,
And where exceptions o'er the general rule prevail,
And, taught by inspiration, in a trice,
Canst punish crimes, and brand offending vice.
Leave, leave to fathom such high points as these,
Nor be ambitious, cre the time to please.
Unseasonably wise, till age and cares
Have forin'd thy soul, to manage great affairs.
Thy face, thy shape, thy outside, are but vain;
Thou hast not strength such labours to sustain ;
Drink hellebore, my boy, drink deep, and purge
thy brain.

What aim'st thou at, and whither tends thy care,
In what thy utmost good? Delicious fare;
And, then, to sun thyself in open air.

Hold, hold! are all thy empty wishes such? A good old woman would have said as much.

|

But thou art nobly born, 'tis true; go boast
Thy pedigree, the thing thou valu'st most:
Besides, thou art a beau: what's that, my child?
A fop well drest, extravagant, and wild:
She, that cries herbs, has less impertinence;
And, in her calling, more of common sense.
None, none descends into himself, to find
The secret imperfections of his mind:
But every one is eagle-ey'd, to see
Another's faults, and his deformity.

Say, dost thou know Vectidius? Who, the wretch
Whose lands beyond the Sabines largely stretch;
Cover the country, that a sailing kite
Can scarce o'erfly them, in a day and night;
Him dost thou mean, who, spite of all his store,
Is ever craving, and will still be poor?
Who cheats for halfpence, and who doffs his coat,
To save a farthing in a ferry-boat?
Ever a glutton at another's cost,

But in whose kitchen dwells perpetual frost ?
Who eats and drinks with his domestic slaves;
Averier hind than any of his knaves?
Born with the curse and anger of the gods,
And that indulgent genius he defrauds?
At harvest-home, and on the shearing day,
When he should thanks to Pan and Pales pay,
And better Ceres; trembling to approach
The little barrel, which he fears to broach:
He, says the wimble, often draws it back,
And deals to thirsty servants but a smack.
To a short meal he makes a tedious grace,
Before the barley-pudding comes in place:
Then, bids fall on; himself, for saving charges,
A peel'd slic'd onion eats, and tipples verjuice.

Thus fares the drudge: but thou, whose life's a
Of lazy pleasures, tak'st a worse extreme. [dream
'Tis all thy business, business how to shun;
To bask thy naked body in the sun;
Suppling thy stiffen'd joints with fragrant oil;
Then, in the spacious garden, walk awhile,

To suck the moisture up, and soak it in:

And this, thou think'st, but vainly think'st, unseen.
But, know, thou art observ'd: and there are those
Who, if they durst, would all thy secret sins expose:
The depilation of thy modest part:
Thy catamite, the darling of thy heart,
His engine-hand, and every lewder art.
When, prone to bear, and patient to receive,
Thou tak'st the pleasure which thou canst not give.
With odorous oil thy head and hair are sleek;
And then thou kemb’st the tuzzes on thy cheek:
Of these thy barbers take a costly care,
While thy salt tail is overgrown with hair.`
Not all thy pincers, nor unmanly arts,
Can smooth the roughness of thy shameful parts.
Not five, the strongest that the Circus breeds,
From the rank soil can root those wicked weeds:
Though suppled first with soap, to ease thy pain,
The stubborn fern springs up, and sprouts again.
Thus others we with defamations wound,
While they stab us; and so the jest goes round.
Vain are thy hopes, to 'scape censorious eyes;
Truth will appear through all the thin disguise:
Thou hast an ulcer which no leech can heal,
Though thy broad shoulder-belt the wound conceal,
Say thou art sound and hale in every part,
We know, we know thee rotten at thy heart,
We know thee sullen, impotent, and proud:
Nor canst thou cheat thy nerve, who cheat'st the
crowd.