MECENAS, what's the cause, that no man lives
Contented with the lot which Reason gives,
Or Chance presents; yet all with envy view
The schemes that others variously pursue?
Broken with toils, with ponderous arms opprest,
The soldier thinks the merchant solely blest.
In opposite extreme; when tempests rise,
War is a better choice, the merchant cries;
The battle joins, and in a moment's flight,
Death, or a joyful conquest, ends the fight.
When early clients thunder at his gate,
The barrister applauds the rustic's fate:
While, by subpoenas dragg'd from home, the clown
Thinks they alone are blest who live in town.
But every various instance to repeat
Would tire ev'n Fabius, of eternal prate.
Not to be tedious, mark the general aim
Of these examples-Should some god proclaim,
"Your prayers are heard: You, soldier, to your seas;
You, lawyer, take that envied rustic's ease:
Each to his several part-What! ha! not move
Even to the bliss you wish'd?" And shall not Jove
Swell both his cheeks with anger, and forswear
His weak indulgence to their future prayer?
But not to treat my subject as in jest
(Yet may not truth in laughing guise be drest?
As masters fondly sooth their boys to read
With cakes and sweetmeats), let us now proceed;
With graver air our serious theme pursue,
And yet preserve our moral full in view.
Who turns the soil, and o'er the ploughshare bends;
He who adulterates the laws, and vends;
The soldier, and th'adventurers of the main,
Profess their various labours they sustain,
A decent competence for age to raise,
And then retire to indolence and ease.
Miser.
For thus the little ant (to human lore
No mean example) forms her frugal store,
Gather'd, with mighty toil, on every side,
Nor ignorant, nor careless to provide
Yet, when the stars appear,
That darkly sadden the declining year,
No more she comes abroad, but wisely lives.
On the fair store industrious summer gives.
For thee, nor summer's heat, nor winter's cold,
Fire, sea, nor sword, stop thy pursuit of gold;
Nothing can break th' adventurous, bold design,
So none possess a larger sum than thine.
But, prithee, whence the pleasure, thus by stealth
Deep in the earth to hide thy weight of wealth?
One farthing lessen'd, you the mass reduce.
And if not lessen'd, whence can rise its use?
What though you thresh a thousand sacks of grain,
No more than mine thy stomach can contain.
The slave who bears the load of bread, shall eat
No more than he who never felt the weight.
Or say, what difference, if we live confin'd
Within the bounds by Nature's laws assign'd,
Whether a thousand acres of demesne,
Or one poor hundred, yield sufficient grain?
Oh! but 'tis sweet to take from larger hoards.
Yet, if my little heap as much affords,
Why shall your granaries be valued more.
Than my small hampers, with their frugal store?
You want a cask of water, or would fill
An ample goblet; whence the froward will
To choose a mighty river's rapid course,
Before this little fountain's lenient source?
But mark his fate, insatiate who desires
Deeper to drink, than nature's thirst requires;
With its torn banks the torrent bears away
Th' intemperate wretch; while he, who would allay
With healthy draughts his thirst, shall driuk secure,
Fearless of death, and quaff his water pure.
Some, self-deceiv'd, who think their lust of gold Is but a love of fame, this maxim hold,
No fortune's large enough, since others rate
Your worth proportion'd to a large estate.
Say, for their cure what arts would you employ?
"Let them be wretched, and their choice enjoy."
At Athens liv'd a wight, in days of yore,
Though miserably rich, yet fond of more,
But of intrepid spirit to despise
Th' abusive crowd. "Let them hiss on," he cries, "While, in my own opinion fully blest,
I count my money, and enjoy my chest."
Burning with thirst, when Tantalus would quaff The flying waters-Wherefore do you laugh? Change but the name, of thee the tale is told, With open mouth when dozing o'er your gold. On every side the numerous bags are pil'd, Whose hallow'd stores must never be defil'd To human use; while you transported gaze, As if, like pictures, they were form'd to please. Would you the real use of riches know? Bread, herbs, and wine are all they can bestow: Or add, what nature's deepest wants supplies; This, and no more, thy mass of money buys. But, with continual watching almost dead, House-breaking thieves, and midnight fires to dread, Or the suspected slave's untimely flight With the dear pelf; if this be thy delight,
Be it my fate, so heaven in bounty please,
Still to be poor of blessings such as these!
Miser.
If, by a cold some painful illness bred,
Or other chance confine you to your bed,
Your wealth shall purchase some good-natur'd
friend
Your cordials to prepare, your couch attend,
And urge the doctor to preserve your life,
And give you to your children and your wife.
Horace.
Nor wife, nor son, that hated life would save,
While all, who know thee, wish thee in the grave.
And canst thou wonder that they prove unkind,
When all thy passions are to gold confin'd?
Nature, 'tis true, in each relation gave
A friend sincere; yet what you thus receive,
If you imagine with unfeeling heart
And careless manners to preserve, your art
As well may teach an ass to scour the plain,
And bend obedient to the forming rein.
Yet somewhere should your views of lucre cease, Nor let your fears of poverty increase,
As does your wealth; for, since you now possess
Your utmost wish, your labour should be less.
Ummidius once (the tale is quickly told),
So wondrous rich, he measur'd out his gold,
Yet never dress'd him better than a slave,
Afraid of starving ere he reach'd his grave:
But a bold wench, of right virago strain,
Cleft with an axe the wretched wight in twain.
Miser.
By your advice, what party shall I take?
Like Mænius live a prodigal, and rake
With such extremes, your conduct to defend?
The sordid miser when I justly blame,
I would not have you prodigal of fame,
Spendthrift or rake; for sure some difference lies
Between the very fool and very wise;
Some certain mean in all things may be found,
To mark our virtues, and our vices bound.
But to return from whence we have digress'd:
And is the miser, then, alone unblest?
Does he alone applaud his neighbour's fate,
Or pine with envy of his happier state?
To crowds beneath him never turn his eye,
Where in distress the sons of virtue lie,
But, to outspeed the wealthy, bend his force,
As if they stopp'd his own impetuous course?
Thus, from the goal when swift the chariot flies,
The charioteer the bending lash applies,
To overtake the foremost on the plain,
But looks on all behind him with disdain.
From hence, how few, like sated guests, depart
From life's full banquet with a cheerful heart!
But let me stop, lest you suspect I stole
From blind Crispinus this eternal scroll.
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