by John Dryden
And, trembling, in his Arms, takes his Accomplice Wife:
Down, down he goes; and from his Darling-Friend
Conceals the Woes his guilty Dreams portend.
When I was young, I, like a lazy Fool,
Wou’d blear my Eyes with Oyl to stay from School: 85
Averse from Pains, and loath to learn the Part
Of Cato, dying with a dauntless Heart:
Though much my Master that stern Virtue prais’d,
Which, o’er the Vanquisher, the Vanquish’d rais’d;
And my pleas’d Father came, with Pride, to see 90
His Boy defend the Roman Liberty.
But then my Study was to Cog the Dice,
And dext’rously to throw the lucky Sice:
To shun Ames-Ace, that swept my Stakes away;
And watch the Box, for fear they shou’d convey 95
False Bones, and put upon me in the Play.
Careful, besides, the Whirling Top to whip,
And drive her giddy, till she fell asleep.
Thy Years are ripe, nor art thou yet to learn
What’s Good or Ill, and both their Ends discern: 100
Thou, in the Stoick Porch, severely bred,
Hast heard the Dogma’s of great Zeno read:
Where on the Walls, by Polignotus Hand,
The Conquer’d Medians in Trunk-Breeches stand:
Where the Shorn Youth to Midnight-Lectures rise, 105
Rous’d from their Slumbers, to be early wise:
Where the coarse Cake, and homely Husks of Beans,
From pamp’ring Riot the young Stomach weans:
And where the Samian Y directs thy Steps to run
To Virtue’s Narrow Steep, and Broad-way Vice to shun. 110
And yet thou snor’st; thou draw’st thy Drunken Breath,
Sour with Debauch; and sleep’st the Sleep of Death.
Thy Chaps are fallen, and thy Frame disjoyn’d:
Thy Body as dissolv’d as is thy Mind.
Hast thou not, yet, propos’d some certain End, 115
To which thy Life, thy ev’ry Act may tend?
Hast thou no Mark, at which to bend thy Bow?
Or like a Boy pursu’st the Carrion Crow
With Pellets, and with Stones from Tree to Tree:
A fruitless Toil, and livest Extempore? 120
Watch the Disease in time: For, when within
The Dropsy rages, and extends the Skin,
In vain for Hellebore the patient Cries,
And Fees the Doctor; but too late is wise:
Too late, for Cure, he proffers half his Wealth: 125
Conquest and Guibbons cannot give him Health.
Learn Wretches; learn the Motions of the Mind,
Why you were made, for what you were design’d;
And the great Moral End of Humane Kind.
Study thy self, What Rank, or what degree 130
The wise Creator has ordain’d for thee:
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. 135
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 Greaz’d Advocate, that Grinds the Poor:
Fat Fees from the defended Umbrian draws; 140
And only gains the wealthy Clients 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, 145
That, e’re the first is out, the second stinks:
And mouldy Mother gathers on the brinks.
But, here, some Captain of the Land, or Fleet,
Stout of his hands, but of a Souldiers Wit;
Cries, I have sense to serve my turn, in store; 150
And he’s a Rascal who pretends to more.
Dammee, what-e’re those Book-learn’d Blockheads say,
Solon’s the veriest Fool in all the Play.
Top-heavy Drones, and always looking down
(As over-Ballasted within the Crown!) 155
Mutt’ring, betwixt their Lips, some Mystick thing,
Which, well examin’d, is flat Conjuring,
Mere Madmen’s Dreams: For, what the Schools have taught
Is only this, that nothing can be brought
From nothing; and what is, can ne’re be turn’d to nought. 160
Is it for this they study? to grow pale,
And miss the Pleasures of a Glorious Meal?
For this, in Rags accouter’d, they are seen,
And made the May-game of the publick spleen?
Proceed, my Friend, and rail: But hear me tell 165
A story, which is just thy Parallel.
A Spark, like thee, of the Man-killing Trade,
Fell sick; and thus to his Physician said:
Methinks I am not right in ev’ry part;
I feel a kind of trembling at my Heart: 170
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, bad him for four Days be still.
Three Days he took good Counsel, and began 175
To mend, and look like a recov’ring Man:
The fourth he cou’d not hold from Drink; but sends
His Boy to one of his old trusty Friends:
Adjuring him, by all the Pow’rs Divine,
To pity his Distress, who cou’d not Dine 180
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 shou’d he find, but his Physician there,
Who, wisely, bad him once again beware. 185
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? 190
Your yellow Skin? — No more of that; I’m well.
I have already Buried 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. 195
I’ve done, says the Physician; take your Course.
The laughing Sot, like all unthinking Men,
Baths and gets Drunk; then Baths and Drinks again:
His Throat half throtled with Corrupted Fleam,
And breathing through his Jaws a belching steam: 200
Amidst his Cups with fainting shiv’ring seiz’d,
His Limbs dis-jointed, and all o’re diseas’d,
His hand refuses to sustain the bowl:
And his Teeth chatter, and his Eye-balls rowl:
Till, with his Meat, he vomits out his Soul: 205
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. 210
They hoyst him on the Bier, and deal the Dole;
And there’s an end of a Luxurious Fool.
But, what’s thy fulsom Parable to me?
My Body is from all Diseases free:
My temperate Pulse does regularly beat; 215
Feel, and be satisfi’d, my Hands and Feet:
These are not cold, nor those Opprest with heat.
Or lay thy hand upon my Naked Heart,
A
nd thou shalt find me Hale in ev’ry part.
I grant this true: But, still, the deadly wound 220
Is in thy Soul; ’Tis there thou art not sound.
Say, when thou seest a heap of tempting Gold,
Or a more tempting Harlot do’st behold;
Then, when she casts on thee a side-long glance,
Then try thy Heart; and tell me if it Dance. 225
Some Course cold Salade 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? 230
Why stand’st thou picking? Is thy Pallat sore?
That Bete, and Radishes will make thee roar?
Such is th’ unequal Temper of thy Mind;
Thy Passions in extreams, and unconfin’d:
Thy Hair so bristles with unmanly Fears, 235
As Fields of Corn, that rise in bearded Ears.
And, when thy Cheeks with flushing Fury glow,
The rage of boyling Caldrons is more slow;
When fed with fuel and with flames below.
With foam upon thy Lips, and sparkling Eyes, 240
Thou say’st and do’st in such outrageous wise:
That mad Orestes, if he saw the show,
Wou’d swear thou wert the Madder of the Two.
The End of the Third Satyr.
Aulus Persius Flaccus: The Fourth Satyr
ARGUMENT OF THE FOURTH SATYR
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 manag’d the Commonwealth: And perhaps might guess at his future Tyranny, by some Passages, during the latter part of his first five years; tho he broke not out, into his great Excesses, while he was restrain’d by the Counsels and Authority of Seneca. Lucan has not spar’d him in the Poem of his Pharsalia: for his very Complement look’d 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. ’Tis probable that he makes Seneca, in this Satyr, sustain the part of Socrates, under a borrow’d Name. And, withal, discovers some secret Vices of Nero, concerning his Lust, his Drunkenness, and his Effeminacy, which had not yet arriv’d to publick Notice. He also reprehends the Flattery of his Courtiers, who endeavour’d to make all his Vices pass for Virtues. Covetousness was undoubtedly none of his Faults; but it is here described as a Veil cast over the True Meaning of the Poet, which was to Satyrize his Prodigality and Voluptuousness: to which he makes a transition. I find no Instance in History of that Emperor’s being a Pathique, though Persius seems to brand him with it. From the two dialogues of Plato, both call’d Alcibiades, the Poet took the Arguments of the Second and Third Satyr, but he inverted the order of them: For the Third Satyr is taken from the first of those Dialogues.
The Commentatours before Casaubon were ignorant of our Author’s secret meaning; and thought he had only written against Young Noblemen in General, who were too forward in aspiring to publick Magistracy: But this Excellent Scholiast has unravell’d the whole Mystery: And made it apparent, that the Sting of this Satyr was particularly aim’d at Nero.
The Fourth Satyr
WHO-E’RE thou art, whose forward years are bent
On State-Affairs, to guide the 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, 5
Our second hope, my Alcibiades,
What are the grounds, from whence thou dost prepare
To undertake so young, so vast a Care?
Perhaps thy Wit: (A Chance not often heard,
That Parts and Prudence shou’d prevent the Beard:) 10
’Tis seldom seen that Senators so young
Know when to speak, and when to hold their Tongue.
Sure thou art born to some peculiar Fate;
When the mad People rise against the State,
To look them into Duty; and command 15
An awful Silence with thy lifted hand.
Then to bespeak ‘em thus: Athenians, know
Against right Reason all your Counsels go;
This is not Fair; nor Profitable that;
Nor t’other Question Proper for Debate. 20
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:
See’st where the Reasons pinch, and where they fail,
And where Exceptions, o’re the general Rule, prevail. 25
And, taught by Inspiration, in a trice,
Can’st punish Crimes, and brand offending Vice.
Leave; leave to fathom such high points as these,
Nor be ambitious, e’re thy time, to please:
Unseasonably Wise, till Age, and Cares, 30
Have form’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, 35
In what thy utmost Good? Delicious Fare;
And, then, to Sun thy self in open air.
Hold, hold; are all thy empty Wishes such?
A good old Woman wou’d have said as much.
But thou art nobly born; ’tis true; go boast 40
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. 45
None, none descends into himself, to find
The secret Imperfections of his Mind:
But ev’ry one is Eagle-ey’d, to see
Another’s Faults, and his Deformity.
Say, do’st thou know Vectidius? Who, the Wretch 50
Whose Lands beyond the Sabines largely stretch;
Cover the Country, that a sailing Kite
Can scarce o’reflye ‘em in a day and night;
Him, do’st thou mean, who, spight of all his store,
Is ever Craving, and will still be Poor? 55
Who cheats for Half-pence, and who doffs his Coat,
To save a Farthing in a Ferry-Boat?
Ever a Glutton, at another’s Cost,
But in whose Kitchin dwells perpetual Frost?
Who eats and drinks with his Domestick Slaves; 60
A verier 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 Sheering-Day,
When he shou’d Thanks to Pan and Pales pay, 65
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, 70
Before the Barly Pudding comes in place:
Then, bids fall on; himself, for saving charges,
A peel’d slic’d Onyon eats, and tipples Verjuice.
Thus fares the Drudge: But thou, whose life’s a Dream
Of Lazy Pleasures, tak’st a worse Extream. 75
’Tis all thy bus’ness, bus’ness how to shun;
To bask thy naked Body in the Sun;
Suppl’ng thy stiffen’d Joints with fragrant Oyl:
Then, in thy spacious Garden, walk a while,
To suck the Moisture up, and soak it in: 80
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, 85
His Engine-hand, and ev’ry leuder Art.
When prone to bear, and patient to receive,
Thou tak’st the pleasure which thou canst not give.
With odorous Oyl thy head and hair are sleek;
And then thou kemb’st the Tuzzes on thy Cheek: 90
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, 95
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. 100
Vain are thy Hopes, to scape censorious Eyes;
Truth will appear, through all the thin Disguise:
Thou hast an Ulcer which no Leach can heal,
Though thy broad Shoulder-belt the Wound conceal.
Say thou art sound and hale in ev’ry part, 105
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 Croud.
But when they praise me, in the Neighbourhood,
When the pleas’d People take me for a God, 110
Shall I refuse their Incense? Not receive
The loud Applauses which the Vulgar give?
If thou do’st Wealth, with longing Eyes, behold;
And, greedily, art gaping after Gold;
If some alluring Girl, in gliding by, 115
Shall tip the wink, with a lascivious Eye,
And thou, with a consenting glance, reply;
If thou, thy own Sollicitor become,
And bid’st arise the lumpish Pendulum:
If thy lewd Lust provokes an empty storm, 120
And prompts to more than Nature can perform;
If, with thy Guards, thou scour’st the Streets by night,
And do’st in Murthers, Rapes, and Spoils delight;
Please not thy self, the flatt’ring Crowd to hear;
’Tis fulsom stuff, to feed thy itching Ear. 125
Reject the nauseous Praises of the Times:
Give thy base Poets back their cobbled Rhymes:
Survey thy Soul, not what thou do’st appear,