Could I on such mean thoughts my muse em-
I want a mistress or a blooming boy. [ploy,
Thus I complain'd: his bow the stripling bent,
And chose an arrow fit for his intent.
The shaft his purpose fatally pursues;
Now, poet, there's a subject for thy musc.
He said: too well, alas, he knows his trade;
For in my breast a mortal wound he made.
Far hence, ye proud hexameters, remove,
My verse is pac'd and trammel'd into love.
With myrtle wreaths my thoughtful brows en-
close,

While in unequal verse I sing my woes.

FROM OVID'S AMOURS.

BOOK I. ELEG. IV.

To his mistress, whose husband is invited to a feast with them. The poet instructs her how to behave herself in his company.

YOUR husband will be with us at the treat;
May that be the last supper he shall eat.
And am poor I a guest invited there,
Only to see, while he may touch the fair?
To see you kiss and hug your nauseous lord,
While his lewd hand descends below the board?
Now wonder not that Hippodamia's charms,
At such a sight, the Centaurs urg'd to arms;
That in a rage they threw their cups aside,
Assail'd the bridegroom, and would force the
bride.

be

I am not half a horse, (I would I were,)
Yet hardly can from you my hands forbear.
Take then my counsel; which observ'd
may
Of some importance both to you and me.
Be sure to come before your man be there;
There's nothing can be done; but come howe'er,
Sit next him (that belongs to decency)
But tread upon my foot in passing by.
Read in my looks what silently they speak,
And slyly, with your eyes, your answer make
My lifted eyebrow shall declare my pain;
My right hand to his fellow shall complain;
And on the back a letter shall design;
Besides a note that shall be writ in wine.
Whene'er you think upon our last embrace,
With your fore-finger gently touch your face.
If any word of mine offend my dear,
Pull, with your hand, the velvet of your ear.
If you are pleas'd with what I do or say,
Handle your rings, or with your fingers play.
As suppliants use at altars, hold the board,
Whene'er you wish the devil may take your
lord.

When he fills for you never touch the cup,
But bid th' officious cuckold drink it
up.
The waiter on those services employ :
Drink you, and I will snatch it from the boy;
Watching the part where your sweet mouth
hath been,

And thence with eager lips will suck it in.
If he, with clownish manners, thinks it fit
To taste, and offer you the nasty bit,
Reject his greasy kindness, and restore
Th' unsav'ry morsel he had chew'd before.
Nor let his arms embrace your neck, nor rest
Your tender cheek upon his hairy breast.
Let not his hand within your bosom stray,
And rudely with your pretty bubbies play.
But above all, let him no kiss receive;
That's an offence I never can forgive.
Do not, O do not that sweet mouth resign,
Lest I rise up in arms, and cry, 'T is mine.
I shall thrust in betwixt, and void of fear
The manifest adulterer will appear.
These things are plain to sight; but more I

doubt

What you conceal beneath your petticoat.
Take not his leg between your tender thighs,
Nor with your hand, provoke my foe to rise.
How many love-inventions I deplore,
Which I myself have practis'd all before?
How oft have I been forc'd the robe to lift
In company; to make a homely shift

For a bare bout, ill huddled o'er in haste,
While o'er my side the fair her mantle cast.
You to your husband shall not be so kind :
But, lest you should, your mantle leave behind.
Encourage him to tope; but kiss him not,
Nor mix one drop of water in his pot.

If he be fuddled well, and snores apace,
Then we may take advice from time and place.
When all depart, when compliments are loud,
Be sure to mix among the thickest crowd:
There I will be, and there we cannot miss,
Perhaps to grabble, or at least to kiss.
Alas! what length of labour I employ,
Just to secure a short and transient joy! [come,
For night must part us: and when night is
Tuck'd underneath his arm he leads you home,
He locks you in; I follow to the door,
His fortune envy, and my own deplore.
He kisses you, he more than kisses too,
Th' outrageous cuckold thinks it all is due.
But add not to his joy by your consent,
And let it not be given, but only lent.
Return no kiss, nor move in any sort;
Make it a dull and a malignant sport.
Had I my wish, he should no pleasure take,
But slubber o'er your business for my sake.
And whate 'er fortune shall this night befall,
Coax me to morrow, by forswearing all.

FROM OVID'S AMOURS.

BOOK II. ELEG. XIX

What comes with ease, we nauseously receive, Who, but a sot, would scorn to love with leave?

With hopes and fears my flames are blown up higher ?

Make me despair, and then I can desire.
Give me a jilt to tease my jealous mind;
Deceits are yirtues in the female kind.
Corinna my fantastic humour knew,
Play'd trick for trick, and kept herself still new:
She, that next night I might the sharper come,
Fell out with me, aud sent me fasting home;
Or some pretence to lie alone would take;
Whene'er she pleas'd, her head and teeth would
Till having won me to the highest strain, [ache:
She took occasion to be sweet again.
With what a gust, ye gods, we then embrac❜d!
How ev'ry kiss was dearer than the last!

Thou whom I now adore, be edified,
Take care that I may often be denied.
Forget the promis'd hour, or feign some fright,
Make me lie rough on bulks each other night.
These are the arts that best secure thy reign,
And this the food, that must my fires maintain.
Gross easy love does, like gross diet, pall,
In squeasy stomachs honey turns to gall.
Had Danaë not been kept in brazen tow'rs,
Jove had not thought her worth his golden
show'rs.

When Juno to a cow turn'd lo's shape,
The watchman help'd her to a second leap.

shore.

The jilting harlot strikes the surest blow,
A truth which I by sad experience know.
The kind poor constant creature we despise;
Man but pursues the quarry while it flies.

But thou, dull husband of a wife too fair, Stand on thy guard, and watch the precious ware;

If creaking doors, or barking dogs thou hear,
Or windows scratch'd, suspect a rival there.
An orange wench would tempt thy wife a-
broad;

Kick her, for she 's a letter-bearing bawd;
In short, be jealous as the devil in hell!
And set my wit on work to cheat thee well.
The sneaking city-cuckold is my foe,
I scorn to strike, but when he wards the blow.
Look to thy hits, and leave off thy conniving
I'll be no drudge to any wittal living;
I have been patient, and forborne thee long,
In hope thou wouldst not pocket up thy wrong:
If no affront can rouse thee, understand
I'll take no more indulgence at thy hand.
What, ne'er to be forbid thy house, and wife!
Damn him who loves to lead so ill a life,
Now I can neither sigh, nor whine, nor pray,
All those occasions thou hast ta'en away.
Why art thou so incorrigibly civil ?

Do somewhat I may wish thee at the devil.
For shame be no accomplice in my treason,
A pimping husband is too much in reason.

Once more wear horns, before I quite forsake her,

In hopes whereof, I rest thy cuckold-maker.

THE FIRST SATIRE OF JUVENAL.

THE ARGUMENT

The poet gives us first a kind of humorous reason for his writing: That being provoked by hearing so many ill poets rehearse their works, he does himself justice on them, by giving them as bad as they bring. But since no man will rank himself with ill writers, 't is easy to conclude, that if such wretches could draw an audience, he thought it no hard matter to excel them, and gain a greater esteem with the public. Next he informs us more openly, why he rather addicts himself to satire, than any other kind of poetry. And here he discovers that it is not so much his indignation to ill poets, as to ill men, which has prompted him to write. He therefore gives us a summary and general view of the vices and follies reigning in his time. So that this first satire is the natural ground

work of all the rest. Herein he confines himself to no one subject, but strikes indifferently at all men in his way in every following satire he has chosen some particular moral which he would inculcate; and lashes some particular vice or fol. ly, (an art with which our lampooners are not much acquainted.) But our poet being desirous to reform his own age, and not daring to attempt it by an overt act of naming living persons, invighs only against those who were infamous in the times immediately preceding his, whereby he not only gives a fair warning to great men, that their memory lies at the mercy of future poets and historians, but also with a finer stroke of his pen brands even the living, and personates them under dead men's names.

I have avoided as much as I could possibly the borrowed learning of marginal notes and illustra tions, and for that reason have translated tnis satire somewhat largely. And freely own (if it be a fault) that I have likewise omitted most of

the proper names, because I thought they would not much edify the reader. To conclude, if in two or three places I have deserted all the commentators, it is because they first deserted my author, or at least have left him in so much obscurity, that too much room is left for guessing. STILL shall I hear, and never quit the score, Stunn'd with hoarse Codrus'Theseid, o'er and o'er?

Shall this man's Elegies and t'other's Play
Unpunish'd murder a long summer's day?
Huge Telephus, a formidable page,
Cries vengeance; and Orestes' bulky rage,
Unsatisfied with margins closely writ,
Foams o'er the covers, and not finish'd yet.
Noman can take a more familiar note
Of his own home, than I of Vulcan's grot,
Or Mars his grove, or hollow winds that blow
From Etna's top, or tortur'd ghosts below.
I know by rote the fam'd exploits of Greece;
The Centaurs' fury, and the golden fleece;
Through the thick shades th' eternal scribbler
bawls,

And shakes the statues on their pedestals.

The best and worst on the same theme employs
His muse, and plagues us with an equal noise.
Provok'd by these incorrigible fools,

I left declaiming in pedantic schools;
Where, with men-boys, I stove to get renown,
Advising Sylla to a private gown.

But since the world with writing is possest,
I'll versify in spite; and do my best,
To make as much waste paper as the rest.

But why I lift aloft the Satire's rod,
And tread the path which fam'd Lucilius trod,
Attend the causes which my Muse have led :
When sapless eunuchs mount the marriage-
bed,

When mannish Mevia, that two-handed whore,
Astride on horseback hunts the Tuscan boar,
When all our lords are by his wealth outvied,
Whose razor on my callow beard was tried;
When I behold the spawn of conquer'd Nile
Crispinus, both in birth and manners vile,
Pacing in pomp, with cloak of Tyrian dye,
Chang'd oft a day for needless luxury;
And finding oft occasion to be fann'd,
Ambitious to produce his lady-hand;

And brawn and back the next of kin lisherit;
For such good parts are in preferment's way,
The rich old madam never fails to pay
Her legacies, by nature's standard gin,
One gains an ounce, another gains eleven:
A dear-bought bargain, all things duly weigh'd,
For which their thrice concocted blood is paid.
With looks as wan, as he who in the brake
At unawares has trod upon a snake;
Or play'd at Lyons a declaiming prize,
For which the vanquish'd rhetorician dies.

What indignation boils within my veins, When perjur'd guardians, proud with impious gains,

Choke up the streets, too narrow for their trains! Whose wards by want betray'd, to crimes are led

Too foul to name, too fulsome to be read!
When he who pill'd his province scapes the laws,
And keeps his money, though he lost his cause:
His fine begg'd off, contemns his infamy,
Can rise at twelve, and get him drunk ere three :
Enjoys his exile, and, condemn'd in vain,
Leaves thee, prevailing province, to complain!
Such villanies rous'd Horace into wrath :
And 't is more noble to pursue his path,
Than an old tale of Diomede to repeat,
Or lab'ring after Hercules to sweat,
Or wand'ring in the winding maze of Crete;
Or with the winged smith aloft to fly,
Or flutt'ring perish with his foolish boy.

With what impatience must the muse be-
hold

The wife, by her procuring husband sold?
For though the law makes null th' adulterer's

deed

Of lands to her, the cuckold may succeed; Who his taught eyes up to the ceiling throws, And sleeps all over but his wakeful nose. When he dares hope a colonel's command,

sweat,

Unable to support a gem of weight:

Such fulsome objects meeting every where, 'T is hard to write, but harder to forbear.

To view so lewd a town, and to refrain, What hoops of iron could my spleen contain ! When pleading Matho, borne abroad for air, With his fat paunch fills his new-fashion'd chair, And after him the wretch in pomp convey'd, Whose evidence his lord and friend betray'd,

Who, yet a stripling, Nero's chariot drove, Whirl'd o'er the streets, while his vain master

strove

With boasted art to please his eunuch-love.

Would it not make a modest author dare To draw his table-book within the square, And fill with notes, when lolling at his ease, Mecanas-like, the happy rogue he sees Borne by six wearied slaves in open view, Who cancell'd an old will, and forg'd a new;

Made wealthy at the small expense of signing With a wet seal, and a fresh interlining?

The lady, next, requires a lashing line, Who squeez'd a toad into her husband's wine: So well the fashionable med'cine thrives, That now 't is practis'd e'en by country wives: Pois'ning, without regard of fame or fear: And spotted corpse are frequent on the bier. Wouldst thou to honours and preferments climb? Be bold in mischief, dare some mighty crime, Which dungeons, death, or banishment de

serves:

For virtue is but dryly prais'd, and starves. Great men, to great crimes, owe their plate emboss'd,

Fair palaces, and furniture of cost;

And high commands: a sneaking sin is lost.
Who can behold that rank old lecher keep
His son's corrupted wife, and hope to sleep?
Or that male-harlot or that unfledg'd boy,
Eager to sin, before he can enjoy ?
If nature could not, anger would indite
Such woful stuff as I or Shadwell write.

Count from the time, since old Deucalion's boat,

Rais'd by the flood, did on Parnassus float;
And scarcely mooring on the cliff, implor'd
An oracle how man might be restor❜d;
When soften'd stones and vital breath ensu'd,
And virgins naked were by lovers view'd;
What ever since that Golden Age was done,
What human kind desires, and what they shun,
Rage, passions, pleasures, impotenco of will,
Shall this satirical collection fill.

What age so large a crop of vices bore,
Or when was avarice extended more?
When were the dice with more profusion
thrown?

The well-fill'd fob not emptied now alone,
But gamesters for whole patrimonies play;
The steward brings the deeds which must convey
The lost estate: what more than madness reigns,
When one short sitting many hundreds drains,
And not enough is left him to supply
Board-wages, or a footman's livery?

What age so many summer seats did see?
Or which of our forefathers far'd so well,
As on a seven dishes, at a private meal?
Clients of old were feasted; now a poor
Divided dole is dealt at th' outward door;
Which by the hungry rout is soon despatch'd :
The paltry largess, too, severely watch'd
Ere given; and ev'ry face observ'd with care,
That no intruding guest usurp a share.
Known, you receive: the crier calls aloud
Our old nobility of Trojan blood,

Who gape among the crowd for their precarious food.

The prætors' and the tribunes' voice is heard;
The freedman justles, and will be preferr'd;
First come,
first serv'd, he cries; and I, in

spite

Of your great lordships, will maintain my right. Though born a slave, though my torn ears are bor'd,

"T is not the birth, 't is money makes the lord.
The rent of five fair houses I receive;
What greater honours can the purple give?
The poor patrician is reduc'd to keep,
In melancholy walks, a grazier's sheep:
Not Pallas nor Licinius had my treasure;
Then let the sacred tribunes wait my leisure,
Once a poor rogue, 't is true, I trod the street,
And trudg'd to Rome upon my naked feet:
Gold is the greatest god; through yet we see
No temples rais'd to Money's majesty,
No altars fuming to her power divine,
Such as to Valour, Peace, and Virtue shine,
And Faith, and Concord: where the stork on
high

Seems to salute her infant progeny:
Presaging pious love with her auspicious cry.

But since our knights and senators account To what their sordid begging vails amount, Judge what a wretched share the poor attends, Whose whole subsistence on those alms de

pends!

Their household fire, their raiment, and their food,

Prevented by those harpies; when a wood
Of litters thick besiege the donor's gate,
And begging lords and teeming ladies wait
The promis'd dole: nay, some have learn'd the

trick

To beg for absent persons; feign them sick,
Close mew'd in their sedans, for fear of air:
And for their wives produce an empty chair.
This is my spouse: despatch her with her share
'Tis Galla: Let her ladyship but peep:
No, Sir, 't is pity to disturb her sleep.

Such fine employments our whole days divide:

The salutations of the morning tide
Call up the sun; those ended, to the hall
We wait the patron, hear the lawyers bawl;
Then to the statues; where amidst the race
Of conqu❜ring Rome, some Arab shows his
face,

Inscrib'd with titles, and profanes the place;
Fit to be piss'd against, and somewhat more.
The great man, home conducted, shuts his

door ;

Old clients, wearied out with fruitless care, Dismiss their hopes of eating, and despair. Though much against the grain forc'd to retire, Buy roots for supper, and provide a fire.

Meantime his lordship lolls within at ease, Pamp'ring his paunch with foreign rarities; Both sea and land are ransack'd for the feast; And his own gut the sole invited guest. Such plate, such tables, dishes drest so well, That whole estates are swallow'd at a meal. E'en parasites are banish'd from his board: (At once a sordid and luxurious lord :) [drest; Prodigious throat, for which whole boars are (A creature form'd to furnish out a feast.) But present punishment pursues his maw, When surfeited and swell'd, the peacock raw ; He bears into the bath; whence want of breath, Repletions, apoplex, intestate death.

His fate makes table talk, divulg'd with scorn, And he, a jest, into his grave is borne.

No age can go beyond us; future times Can add no farther to the present crimes. Our sons but the same things can wish and do; Vice is at stand, and at the highest flow. Then Satire, spread thy sails, take all the winds can blow. [yield Some may, perhaps, demand what Muse can Sufficient strength for such a spacious field? From whence can be deriv'd so large a vein, Bold truths to speak, and spoken to maintain; When god-like freedom is so far bereft The noble mind, that scarce the name is left? Ere scandalum magnatum was begot, No matter if the great forgave or not: But if that honest license now you take, If into rogues omnipotent you rake, Death is your doom, impal'd upon a stake. Smear'd o'er with wax, and set on fire, to light The streets, and make a dreadful blaze by night. [draught Shall they, who drench'd three uncles in a Of pois'nous juice, be then in triumph brought, Make lanes among the people where they go, And, mounted high on downy chariots, throw Disdainful glances on the crowd below? Be silent, and beware, if such you see; 'Tis defamation but to say, That's he!

Against bold Turnus the great Trojan arm, Amidst their strokes the poets gets no harm: Achilles may in epique verse be slain, And none of all his Myrmidons complain: Hylas may drop his pitcher, none will cry; Not if he drown himself for company: But when Lucilius brandishes his pen, And flashes in the face of guilty men, A cold sweat stands in drops on ev'ry part; And rage succeeds to tears, revenge to smart. Muse, be advis'd; 't is past consid'ring time, When enter'd once the dang'rous lists of

rhyme :

Since none the living villains dare implead, Arraign them in the persons of the dead.

THE THIRD SATIRE OF JUVENAL.

THE ARGUMENT.

The story of this satire speaks itself. Umbritius the supposed friend of Juvenal, and himself a poet, is leaving Rome, and retiring to Cuma. Our author accompanies him out of town. Before they take leave of each other, Umbritius tells his friend the reasons which oblige him to lead a private life, in an obscure place. He complains that an honest man cannot get his bread at Rome. That none but flatterers make their fortunes there: that Grecians and other foreigners raise themselves by these sordid arts which he describes, and against which he bitterly inveighs. He reckons up the several inconveniencies which arise from a city life; and the many dangers which attend it. Upbraids the noblemen with covetousness, for not rewarding good poets; and arraigns the govenment for starying them. The great art of this satire is particularly shown, in common places; and drawing in as many vices, as could naturally fall into the compass of it.

GRIEV'D though I am an ancient friend to lose,
I like the solitary seat he chose :
In quiet Cuma fixing his repose:
Where, far from noisy Rome secure he lives,
And one more citizen to Sybil gives.
The road to Baja, and that soft recess,
Which all the gods with all their bounty bless.
Though I in Prochyta with greater ease
Could live, than in a street of palaces.
What scene so desert, or so full of fright,
As tow'ring houses tumbling in the night,
And Rome on fire beheld by its own blazing
light?

But worse than all, the clatt'ring tiles; and worse
Than thousand padders, is the poet's curse.
Rogues that in dog-days cannot rhyme forbear:
But without mercy read, and make you hear.

Now while my friend, just ready to depart, Was packing all his goods in one poor cart; He stopp'd a little at the Conduit-gate, Where Numa modell'd once the Roman state, In mighty councils with his Nymph* retir❜d: Though now the sacred shades and founts are hir'd [lay By banish'd Jews, who their whole wealth can In a small basket, on a wisp of hay; Yet such our avarice is, that ev'ry tree Pays for his head; nor sleep itself is free: Nor place, nor persons, now are sacred held, From their own grove the Muses are expell'd. Into this lonely vale our steps we bend, I and my sullen discontented friend: The marble caves, and aqueducts we view; But how adult'rate now, and different from the true!

Nymph) Egeria, a nymph, or goddess; with whom Numa feigned to converse by night, and to be instructed by her in modelling his superstitions.