English

" Besides the things that you have told,
Tiresias, let me be so bold,
As your opinion to demand
How I the loss of house and land
May be enabled to repair
By what expedient, art, or care?
Why do you laugh?" — " O fam'd for tricks!
Is't not enough your route to fix,
That you may Ithaca regain,
And in your native country reign?"
— " O thou that never spoke a lie,
You see how stript, how poor am I,
Returning by your prophecy.
Where my wife's suitors I shall find,
Nor wealth nor flocks have left behind:

" From whence arriv'd, and where away
Good Catius?" — " Sir, I cannot stay —
In haste some maxims to set down,
Form'd to out-rival the renown
And works of Plato's learned ease,
Pythagoras and Socrates" —
" I own myself a little rude,
At such a juncture to intrude
With interruptions indiscreet;
But pardon me, I do intreat.
If any thought you lost, you'll find,
So great the presence of your mind,
Whether 'tis nature, or mere skill,
You're great in both, a wit at will."

" Your works so seldom now appear,
You scarcely wrote four times last year;
Employ'd your poems to retouch,
And wroth you have indulg'd so much
In wine and sleep, till all your lays
Are far beneath the public praise.
What now? you come here with a view,
The feast of Saturn to eschew —
So now you're sober, drive your trade,
And keep the promise that you made.
Begin — there is no let at all,
In vain you blame your pen, and scrawl
Upon the harmless, helpless wall.
And yet your features were intent,

What and how great it is to be
A pattern of oeconomy;
(Nor is this doctrine fairly mine,
But what Ofellus wou'd injoin,
A rustic without learning taught,
And wise by downright strength of thought)
Learn, my good friends, while I debate,
But not amongst a glare of plate,
When the maz'd eye is at a loss,
And mind mis-judges, dup'd by gloss,
But here, while fasting, let us weigh —
Why so? — I'll tell you, if I may —
A judge corrupted with a fee,
Cannot the truth so clearly see;

A saunt'ring on the sacred way ,
(As is my custom every day)
Upon some trivial thing intent,
With all my thoughts engag'd, I went.
When, lo! a chap, whom by his name
I barely knew, abruptly came,
And grasping hard my hand in his,
" How does the dearest man, that is?"
" The times consider'd, I can do ,
With my best wishes, Sir, for you."
But finding that he still kept on,
I ask'd him, what he was upon?
He answer'd, " Sir, you must know ME ,
A scholar of the first degree." —
I told him on that very score,

Cut from the bastard-fig of yore,
A lumpish useless form I bore,
When the pos'd joiner was in doubt,
What in the end I shou'd turn out,
A god, or chipping-block — at last
My lot was for Priapus cast.
Hence as a pow'r divine, I stand
To scare the thieves and birds — my hand
The former checks, but for the crows
A reed is fix'd above my nose,
Which still forbids them to parade
In these fine gardens, newly made.
Here sometime since the fellow-slave,
Brought out dead corpses to the grave,

How Persius, ev'n that mongrel thing,
Aveng'd himself against one King,
Who by Octavius was proscrib'd,
He had such spite and gall imbib'd,
I make no doubt but long ago,
All Barbers and their patients know.
This Persius was compell'd to be
On business at Clazomenae,
Because his bulk of wealth was there,
With King too a perplex'd affair.
This man was harsh, and of such hate,
That even King's was not so great,
Full of all confidence and vain,
And still in such abusive strain,
That he cou'd distance and out do,

Tho' of the Lydians, that came o'er
To settle on th'Etrurian shore,
Not one is of more rank than you,
And tho' your sire and grandsire too,
Reckon'd on either parent's side,
Did o'er such mighty hosts preside;
Yet, friend, the manners of the great
In this you do not imitate,
At low-born men to toss the nose,
Like me who from a free'd-man rose,
Because you will not grant that birth,
Tho' mean, can cancel real worth.
This is a truth that you maintain,
That long before the servile reign,

Cratinus, Eupolis, with these
And others Aristophanes,
Who made their comedies of yore,
If any man on any score
Was worthy of a shameful note
They branded him, in what they wrote,
With perfect freedom and by name,
As thief, adult'rous son of shame,
Cut-throat, or any otherwise
Disgrac'd — with them Lucilius vies,
On them depends upon the whole
But changing feet, and measure droll;
Keen — but still making verses halt,
For this was his peculiar fault,
Two hundred verses in an hour

This is the fault of all the quire,
They will not sing at your desire,
But, if you never beg a song
They'll keep a-quav'ring all day long.
Tigellius, that Sardinian spark,
Was a great proof of this remark.
Had Caesar, whose undoubted sway
Might have compell'd him to obey,
Pleaded, to make him shew his tone,
His father's friendship and his own,
He wou'd not yet with all have sped —
But did he take it in his head,
A bacchanalian catch he'd grace,
From highest pitch to lowest bass;
Or every note to every string,