P. Each mortal has his pleasure: none deny Scarsdale his bottle, Darty his ham-pie; Ridotta sips and dances, till she see The doubling l.u.s.tres dance as fast as she; F---- loves the senate, Hockley-hole his brother, Like in all else, as one egg to another.

I love to pour out all myself, as plain As downright Shippen, or as old Montaigne: In them, as certain to be loved as seen, The soul stood forth, nor kept a thought within; In me what spots (for spots I have) appear, Will prove at least the medium must be clear.

In this impartial gla.s.s, my muse intends Fair to expose myself, my foes, my friends; Publish the present age; but where my text Is vice too high, reserve it for the next: My foes shall wish my life a longer date, And every friend the less lament my fate.

My head and heart thus flowing through my quill, Verse-man or prose-man, term me which you will, Papist or Protestant, or both between, Like good Erasmus in an honest mean, In moderation placing all my glory, While Tories call me Whig, and Whigs a Tory.

Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet To run a muck, and tilt at all I meet; I only wear it in a land of Hectors, Thieves, supercargoes, sharpers, and directors.

Save but our army! and let Jove encrust Swords, pikes, and guns, with everlasting rust!

Peace is my dear delight-not Fleury's more: But touch me, and no minister so sore.

Whoe'er offends, at some unlucky time Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhyme, Sacred to ridicule his whole life long, And the sad burthen of some merry song.

Slander or poison dread from Delia's rage Hard words or hanging, if your judge be Page.

From furious Sappho scarce a milder fate, Plagued by her love, or libelled by her hate.

Its proper power to hurt, each creature feels; Bulls aim their horns, and a.s.ses lift their heels; 'Tis a bear's talent not to kick, but hug; And no man wonders he's not stung by pug.

So drink with Walters, or with Chartres eat, They'll never poison you, they'll only cheat.

Then, learned sir! (to cut the matter short) Whate'er my fate, or well or ill at Court, Whether old age, with faint but cheerful ray, Attends to gild the evening of my day, Or death's black wing already be displayed, To wrap me in the universal shade; Whether the darkened room to muse invite, Or whitened wall provoke the skewer to write: In durance, exile, Bedlam or the Mint- Like Lee or Budgel, I will rhyme and print.

F. Alas, young man! your days can ne'er be long, In flower of age you perish for a song!

Plums and directors, Shylock and his wife, Will club their testers, now, to take your life!

P. What? armed for virtue when I point the pen, Brand the bold front of shameless guilty men; Dash the proud gamester in his gilded car; Bare the mean heart that lurks beneath a star; Can there be wanting, to defend her cause, Lights of the Church, or guardians of the laws?

Could pensioned Boileau lash in honest strain Flatterers and bigots even in Louis' reign?

Could Laureate Dryden pimp and friar engage, Yet neither Charles nor James be in a rage?

And I not strip the gilding off a knave, Unplaced, unpensioned, no man's heir, or slave?

I will, or perish in the generous cause: Hear this, and tremble! you, who 'scape the laws.

Yes, while I live, no rich or n.o.ble knave Shall walk the world, in credit, to his grave.

To Virtue only and her friends a friend, The world beside may murmur, or commend.

Know, all the distant din that world can keep Rolls o'er my grotto, and but soothes my sleep.

There, my retreat the best companions grace, Chiefs out of war, and statesmen out of place.

There St. John mingles with my friendly bowl The feast of reason and the flow of soul: And he, whose lightning pierced the Iberian lines, Now forms my quincunx, and now ranks my vines Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain, Almost as quickly as he conquered Spain.

Envy must own, I live among the great, No pimp of pleasure, and no spy of state.

With eyes that pry not, tongue that ne'er repeats, Fond to spread friendships, but to cover heats; To help who want, to forward who excel; This, all who know me, know; who love me, tell; And who unknown defame me, let them be Scribblers or peers, alike are mob to me.

This is my plea, on this I rest my cause- What saith my counsel, learned in the laws?

F. Your plea is good; but still I say, beware!

Laws are explained by men-so have a care.

It stands on record, that in Richard's times A man was hanged for very honest rhymes.

Consult the Statute: quart. I think it is, Edwardi s.e.xt. or prim. et quint. Eliz.

See libels, satires-here you have it-read.

P. Libels and satires! lawless things indeed!

But grave epistles, bringing vice to light, Such as a king might read, a bishop write; Such as Sir Robert would approve- F. Indeed?

The case is altered-you may then proceed; In such a cause the plaintiff would be hissed; My lords the judges laugh, and you're dismissed.

THE SECOND SATIRE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE.

SATIRE II. TO MR. BETHEL.

What, and how great, the virtue and the art To live on little with a cheerful heart (A doctrine sage, but truly none of mine), Let's talk, my friends, but talk before we dine.

Not when a gilt buffet's reflected pride Turns you from sound philosophy aside; Not when from plate to plate your eyeb.a.l.l.s roll, And the brain dances to the mantling bowl.

Hear Bethel's sermon, one not versed in schools, But strong in sense, and wise without the rules.

Go work, hunt, exercise! (he thus began) Then scorn a homely dinner, if you can.

Your wine locked up, your butler strolled abroad, Or fish denied (the river yet unthawed), If then plain bread and milk will do the feat, The pleasure lies in you, and not the meat.

Preach as I please, I doubt our curious men Will choose a pheasant still before a hen; Yet hens of Guinea full as good I hold, Except you eat the feathers green and gold.

Of carps and mullets why prefer the great (Though cut in pieces ere my lord can eat), Yet for small turbots such esteem profess?

Because G.o.d made these large, the other less.

Oldfield with more than harpy throat endued, Cries "Send me, G.o.ds! a whole hog barbecued!

Oh, b---- it, south-winds! till a stench exhale Rank as the ripeness of a rabbit's tail.

By what criterion do ye eat, d'ye think, If this is prized for sweetness, that for stink?"

When the tired glutton labours through a treat, He finds no relish in the sweetest meat, He calls for something bitter, something sour, And the rich feast concludes extremely poor: Cheap eggs, and herbs, and olives still we see; Thus much is left of old simplicity!

The robin-redbreast till of late had rest, And children sacred held a martin's nest, Till becca-ficos sold so devilish dear To one that was, or would have been a peer.

Let me extol a cat, on oysters fed, I'll have a party at the Bedford-head; Or even to crack live crawfish recommend; I'd never doubt at Court to make a friend.

'Tis yet in vain, I own, to keep a pother About one vice, and fall into the other: Between excess and famine lies a mean; Plain, but not sordid; though not splendid, clean.

Avidien, or his wife (no matter which, For him you'll call a dog, and her a b.i.t.c.h) Sell their presented partridges, and fruits, And humbly live on rabbits and on roots: One half-pint bottle serves them both to dine, And is at once their vinegar and wine.

But on some lucky day (as when they found A lost bank-bill, or heard their son was drowned) At such a feast, old vinegar to spare, Is what two souls so generous cannot bear: Oil, though it stink, they drop by drop impart, But souse the cabbage with a bounteous heart.

He knows to live, who keeps the middle state, And neither leans on this side, nor on that; Nor stops, for one bad cork, his butler's pay, Swears, like Albutius, a good cook away; Nor lets, like Naevius, every error pa.s.s, The musty wine, foul cloth, or greasy gla.s.s.

Now hear what blessings temperance can bring: (Thus said our friend, and what he said I sing,) First health: The stomach (crammed from every dish, A tomb of boiled and roast, and flesh and fish, Where bile, and wind, and phlegm, and acid jar, And all the man is one intestine war) Remembers oft the schoolboy's simple fare, The temperate sleeps, and spirits light as air.

How pale, each worshipful and reverend guest Rise from a clergy, or a city feast!

What life in all that ample body, say?

What heavenly particle inspires the clay?

The soul subsides, and wickedly inclines To seem but mortal, even in sound divines.

On morning wings how active springs the mind That leaves the load of yesterday behind!

How easy every labour it pursues!

How coming to the poet every muse!

Not but we may exceed, some holy time, Or tired in search of truth, or search of rhyme; Ill health some just indulgence may engage, And more the sickness of long life, old age; For fainting age what cordial drop remains, If our intemperate youth the vessel drains?

Our fathers praised rank venison. You suppose, Perhaps, young men! our fathers had no nose.

Not so: a buck was then a week's repast, And 'twas their point, I ween, to make it last; More pleased to keep it till their friends could come, Than eat the sweetest by themselves at home.

Why had not I in those good times my birth, Ere c.o.xcomb pies or c.o.xcombs were on earth?

Unworthy he, the voice of fame to hear, That sweetest music to an honest ear; (For 'faith, Lord f.a.n.n.y! you are in the wrong The world's good word is better than a song) Who has not learned fresh sturgeon and ham-pie Are no rewards for want, and infamy?

When luxury has licked up all thy pelf, Cursed by thy neighbours, thy trustees, thyself, To friends, to fortune, to mankind a shame, Think how posterity will treat thy name; And buy a rope, that future times may tell, Thou hast at least bestowed one penny well.

"Right," cries his lordship, "for a rogue in need To have a taste is insolence indeed: In me 'tis n.o.ble, suits my birth and state, My wealth unwieldy, and my heap too great."

Then, like the sun, let bounty spread her ray, And shine that superfluity away.

Oh, impudence of wealth! with all thy store, How dar'st thou let one worthy man be poor?

Shall half the new-built churches round thee fall?

Make quays, build bridges, or repair Whitehall: Or to thy country let that heap be lent, As M**o's was, but not at five per cent.

Who thinks that Fortune cannot change her mind, Prepares a dreadful jest for all mankind.

And who stands safest? tell me, is it he That spreads and swells in puffed posterity, Or blest with little, whose preventing care In peace provides fit arms against a war?

Thus Bethel spoke, who always speaks his thought, And always thinks the very thing he ought: His equal mind I copy what I can, And, as I love, would imitate the man.

In South-Sea days not happier, when surmised The lord of thousands, than if now excised; In forest planted by a father's hand, Than in five acres now of rented land.

Content with little, I can p----e here On broccoli and mutton, round the year; But ancient friends (though poor, or out of play) That touch my bell, I cannot turn away.

'Tis true, no turbots dignify my boards, But gudgeons, flounders, what my Thames affords: To Hounslow Heath I point and Banstead Down, Thence comes your mutton, and these chicks my own: From yon old walnut-tree a shower shall fall; And grapes, long lingering on my only wall, And figs from standard and espalier join; The devil is in you if you cannot dine: Then cheerful healths (your mistress shall have place), And, what's more rare, a poet shall say grace.

Fortune not much of humbling me can boast; Though double taxed, how little have I lost?

My life's amus.e.m.e.nts have been just the same, Before, and after, standing armies came.

My lands are sold, my father's house is gone; I'll hire another's; is not that my own, And yours, my friends? through whose free-opening gate None comes too early, none departs too late; (For I, who hold sage Homer's rule the best, Welcome the coming, speed the going guest).

"Pray Heaven it last!" (cries Swift!) "as you go on; I wish to G.o.d this house had been your own: Pity! to build without a son or wife: Why, you'll enjoy it only all your life."

Well, if the use be mine, can it concern one, Whether the name belong to Pope or Vernon?

What's property? dear Swift! you see it alter From you to me, from me to Peter Walter; Or, in a mortgage, prove a lawyer's share; Or, in a jointure, vanish from the heir; Or in pure equity (the case not clear) The Chancery takes your rents for twenty year: At best, it falls to some ungracious son, Who cries, "My father's d.a.m.ned, and all's my own."

Shades, that to Bacon could retreat afford, Become the portion of a b.o.o.by lord; And Hemsley, once proud Buckingham's delight, Slides to a scrivener or a city knight.

Let lands and houses have what lords they will, Let us be fixed, and our own masters still.

THE FIRST EPISTLE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.

EPISTLE I. TO LORD BOLINGBROKE.

St. John, whose love indulged my labours past, Matures my present, and shall bound my last!

Why will you break the Sabbath of my days?

Now sick alike of envy and of praise.