SATIRE VII.

DAVUS. HORACE.

Davus.

I'LL hear no more, and with impatience burn,
Slave as I am, to answer in my turn;

And yet I fear

Horace.

What! Davus, is it you'

Davus.

Yes. Davus, sir, the faithful and the true.
With wit enough no sudden death to fear-
Horace.

Well. Since this jovial season of the year
Permits it, and our ancestors ordain,
No more thy dear impertinence restrain.
Davus.

Among mankind, while some with steady view
One constant course of darling vice pursue,
Most others float along the changing tide,
And now to virtue, now to vice they glide.
Lo! from three rings how Priscus plays the light;
Now shows his naked hand-the various wight
With every hour a different habit wears:
Now in a palace haughtily appears,

Then hides him in some vile and filthy place,
Where a clean slave would blush to show his face:
Now rakes at Rome, and now to Athens flies;
Intensely studies with the learn'd and wise.
Sure all the gods, who rule this varying earth,
In deep despite presided at his birth.

Old Volanerius, once that man of joke,
When the just gout his crippled fingers broke,
Maintain'd a slave to gather up the dice,
So constant was he to his darling vice.
Yet less a wretch than he who now maintains
A steady course, now drives with looser reins.

N

When with lavish praise

You vaunt the happiness of ancient days,

Suppose some god should take you at your word,
Would you not scorn the blessing you implor'd?
Whether not yet convinc'd, as you pretend,
Or weak the cause of virtue to defend;
While sinking in the mire you strive, in vain,
Too deeply plung'd, to free your foot again.

When you're at Rome, the country has your sighs;
A rustic grown, you vaunt into the skies
The absent town. Perchance, if uninvited
To sup abroad, oh! then you're so delighted
With your own homely meal, that one would think
That he, who next engages you to drink,

Must tie you neck and heels; you seem so blest,
When with no bumper-invitation prest.

But should Mæcenas bid his poet wait (Great folks, like him, can never sup till late), Sputtering with idle rage the house you rend, "Where is my essence? Rogues, what, none attend?” While the buffoons, you promis'd to have treated, Sneak off with curses-not to be repeated.

Fond of my guts, too fond, perhaps, I seem;
I throw my nose up to a savoury steam:
Or folks may call me careless, idle sot,
Or say I pledge too oft the other pot:
But shall the man of deeper vice, like you,
With malice unprovok'd my faults pursue,
Because with specious phrase, and terms of art,
You clothe, forsooth, the vices of your heart?

What if a greater fool your worship's found, Than the poor slave you bought for twenty pound? Think not to fright me with that threatening air; Nay, keep your temper, sir, your fingers spare,

While I the maxims, sage and wise, repeat,
Taught me by Crispin's porter at his gate.

You tempt your neighbour's wife; an humble harlot
Contents poor Davus-who's the greater varlet?
When nature fires my veins, I quench the flame,
And leave the fair-one with uninjur'd fame,
Nor shall one jealous care disturb my breast,
By whom the wanton shall be next possest.
When you throw off those ensigns of your pride,
Your ring, your judge's robe, and basely hide,
Beneath a slave's vile cap, your essenc'd hair,
Say, are you not the wretch whose clothes you wear?
Then where's the difference, whether you engage
Through scourges, wounds and death, to mount the
stage,

Or by the conscious chamber-maid are prest
Quite double, neck and heels, into a chest?

The husband's vengeance o'er the wife extends,
But yet his juster wrath on you descends;
For she ne'er strolls abroad in vile disguise,
And, when her lewder wishes highest rise,
She dares but half indulge the sin; afraid,
Even by the man she loves, to be betray'd.

You take the yoke, and to the husband's rage
Your fortune, person, life, and fame engage.
Have you escap'd? Methinks, your future care
Might wisely teach you to avoid the snare.
No; you with ardour to the danger run,
And dare a second time to be undone.
Repeated slave! what beast, that breaks his chain,
In love with bondage would return again?

But you, it seems, ne'er touch the wedded dameThen, by the son of Jove, I here disclaim

The name of thief, when, though with backward eye,
I wisely pass the silver goblet by.

But take the danger and the shame away,
And vagrant nature bounds upon her prey,
Spurning the reins. But say, shall you pretend
O'er me to lord it, who can vilely bend
To each proud master; to each changing hour
A very slave? Not even the prætor's power,

With thrice-repeated rites, thy fears controul,
Or vindicate the freedom of thy soul.

. But as the slave, who lords it o'er the rest,
Is still a slave, a master-slave at best,

So art thou, insolent, by me obey'd;

Thou thing of wood and wires, by others play'd.

Who then is free?

Horace.

Davus.

The wise, who well maintains An empire o'er himself; whom neither chains, Nor want, nor death, with slavish fear inspire; Who boldly answers to his warm desire; Who can ambition's vainest gifts despise; Firm in himself, who on himself relies; Polish'd and round who runs his proper course, And breaks misfortune with superior force.

What is there here, that you can justly claim,
Or call your own? When an imperious dame
Demands her price, with insults vile pursues thee;
Driven out of doors with water well bedews thee,
Then calls you back; for shame, shake off her chain,
And boldly tell her you are free-In vain ;

A tyrant-lord thy better will restrains,
And spurs thee hard, and breaks thee to his reins.
If some fam'd piece the painter's art displays,
Transfix'd you stand, with admiration gaze;
But is your worship's folly less than mine,
When I with wonder view some rude design
In crayons or in charcoal, to invite
The crowd, to see the gladiators fight?
Methinks, in very deed they mount the stage,
And seem in real combat to engage:

Now in strong attitude they dreadful bend;
Wounded they wound; they parry and defend:
Yet Davus is with rogue and rascal grac'd,
But you're a critic, and a man of taste.

I am, forsooth, a good-for-nothing knave,
When by a smoking pasty made a slave:
In you it shows a soul erect and great,
If you refuse even one luxurious treat.

Why may not I, like you, my guts obey?-
"My shoulders for the dear indulgence pay."
But should not you with heavier stripes be taught,
Who search for luxuries; how dearly bought!
For soon this endless, this repeated feast,
Its relish lost, shall pall upon the taste;
Then shall your trembling limbs refuse the weight
Of a vile carcass with disease replete.

How seldom from the lash a slave escapes,
Who trucks some trifle, that he stole, for grapes!
And shall we not the servile glutton rate,
To please his throat who sells a good estate?
You cannot spend one vacant hour alone;
You cannot make that vacant hour your own.
A self-deserter from yourself you stray,
And now with wine, and now with sleep, allay
Your cares in vain; companions black as night,
Thy pressing cares, arrest thee in thy flight.

Is there no stone?

Horace.

Davus.

At whom, good sir, to throw it?
Horace.

Have I no dart?

Davus.

What mischief ails our poet?

He's mad, or making verses.

Horace.

Hence, you knave,

Or to my farm I'll send you, the ninth slave.