7

How many thousand acres feed his sheep? What are his rents? what servants does he koep?

Th' account is soon cast up; the judges rate
Our credit in the court by our estate.

Swear by our gods, or those the Greeks adore,
Thou art as sure forsworn, as thou art poor:
The poor must gain their bread by perjury;
And e'en the gods, that other means deny,
In conscience must absolve 'em, when they lie.
Add, that the rich have still a gibe in store;
And will be monstrous witty on the poor:
For the torn surtout and the tatter'd vest,
The wretch and all his wardrobe are a jest:
The greasy gown, sullied with often turning,
Gives a good hint, to say, The inan's in mourn-
ing;

Or if the shoe be ript, or patches put,
He's wounded! see the plaster on his foot.
Want is the scorn of ev'ry wealthy fool;
And wit in rags is turn'd to ridicule.

Pack hence, and from the cover'd benches rise,

(The master of the ceremonies cries,)
This is no place for you, whose small estate
Is not the value of the settled rate :
The sons of happy punks, the pander's heir,
Are privileg'd to sit in triumph there,
To clap the first, and rule the theatre.
Up to the galleries, for shame, retreat;
For, by the Roscian law, the poor can claim no

seat.

Who ever brought to his rich daughter's bed The man that poll'd but twelve pence for his head?

Who ever nam'd a poor man for his heir,
Or call'd him to assist the judging chair?
The poor were wise, who, by the rich op-
press'd,

Withdrew, and sought a sacred place of rest.
Once they did well, to free themselves from

scorn;

But had done better never to return.
Rarely they rise by virtue's aid, who lie
Plung'd in the depth of helpless poverty.

At Rome 't is worse; where house-rent by the year,

And servants' bellies cost so devilish dear;
And tavern bills run high for hungry cheer.
To drink or eat in earthenware we scorn,
Which cheaply country cupboards does adorn :
And coarse blue hoods on holydays are worn.
Some distant parts of Italy are known,
Where none, but only dead men, wear a gown:
On theatres of turf, in homely state,
Old plays they act, old feasts they celebrate :
The same rude song returns upon the crowd,
And, by tradition, is for wit allow'd,

The mimic yearly gives the same delights;
And in the mother's arms the clownish infant
frights.

Their habits (undistinguish'd by degree)
Are plain, alike; the same simplicity,
Both on the stage, and in the pit, you see.
In his white cloak the magistrate appears;
The country bumpkin the same liv'ry wears.
But here, attir'd beyond our purse we go,
For useless ornament and flaunting show:
We take on trust, in purple robes to shine;
And poor, are yet ambitious to be fine.
This is a common vice, though all things here
Are sold, and sold unconscionably dear.
What will you give that Cossus may but view
Your face, and in the crowd distinguish you;
May take your incense like a gracious god,
And answer only with a civil nod?

To please our patrons, in this vicious age,
We make our entrance by the fav'rite page:
Shave his first down, and when he polls his har,
The consecrated locks to temples bear:
Pay tributary cracknels, which he sells,
And, with our offerings, help to raise his vail.
Who fears, in country towns, a house's fall,
Or to be caught betwixt a riven wall?
But we inhabit a weak city here;
Which buttresses and props but scarcely bear:
And 't is the village mason's daily calling,
To keep the world's metropolis from falling,
To cleanse the gutters, and the chinks to close,
And, for one night, secure his lord's repose.
At Cuma we can sleep, quite round the year,
Nor falls, nor fires, nor nightly dangers fear;
While rolling flames from Roman turrets fly
And the pale citizens for buckets cry.
Thy neighbour has remov'd his wretched store,
(Few hands will rid the lumber of the poor ;)
Thy own third story smokes, while thou, supine,
Art drench'd in fumes of undigested wine.
For if the lowest floors already burn,
Cocklofts and garrets soon will take their turn.
Where thy tame pigeons next the tiles were
bred,

Which, in their nests unsafe, are timely fled

Codrus had but one bed, so short to boot, That his short wife's short legs hung dangling

out

His cupboard's head six earthen pitchers grac'd,
Beneath 'em was his trusty tankard plac'd.
And, to support this noble plate, there lay
A bending Chiron cast from honest clay;
His few Greek books a rotten chest contain'd;
Whose covers much of mouldiness complain d⚫
Where mice and rats devour'd poetic bread,
And with heroic verse luxuriously were fed.
"T is true, poor Codrus nothing had to boast,
And yet poor Codrus all that nothing lost,

Rome;

And found not one to feed, or take him home. But if the palace of Arturius burn,

The nobles change their clothes, the matrons mourn;

The city pretor will no pleadings hear;
The very name of fire we hate and fear;
And look aghast, as if the Gauls were here.
While yet it burns, th' officious nation flies,
Some to condole, and some to bring supplies:
One sends him marble to rebuild, and one
White naked statues of the Parian stone,
The work of Polyclete, that seem to live;
While others images for altars give;
One books and screens,and Pallas to the breast;
Another bags of gold, and he gives best.
Childless Arturius, vastly rich before,
Thus by his losses multiplies his store :
Suspected for accomplice to the fire,
That burnt his palace but to build it higher.
But, could you be content to bid adieu
To the dear play-house, and the players too:
Sweet country-seats are purchas'd every where,
With lands and gardens, at less price than here
You hire a darksome doghole by the year.
A small convenience, decently prepar'd,
A shallow well, that rises in your yard,
That spreads his easy crystal streams around,
And waters all the pretty spot of ground.
There, love the fork, thy garden cultivate,
And give thy frugal friends a Pythagorean treat.
'Tis somewhat to be lord of some small ground,
In which a lizard may, at least, turn round.
'T is frequent, here, for want of sleep to die;
Which fumes of undigested feasts deny;
And, with imperfect heat, in languid stomachs
fry.
[keep,
What house secure from noise the poor can
When e'en the rich can scarce afford to sleep;
So dear it costs to purchase rest in Rome;
And hence the sources of diseases come.
The drover who his fellow-drover meets
In narrow passages of winding streets;
The wagoners, that curse their standing
teams,
[dreams.
Would wake é'en drowsy Drusus from his
And yet the wealthy will not brook delay,
But sweep above our heads, and make their

way;

In lofty litters born, and read and write,
Or sleep at ease: the shutters make it night.
Yet still he reaches, first, the public place:
The press before him stops the client's pace.
The crowd that follows crush his panting sides,
And trip his heels; he walks not, but he rides.
One elbows him, one justles in the shole;
A rafter breaks his head, or chairman's pole:

Indents his legs behind in bloody rows.

See with what smoke our doles we celebrate : A hundred guests, invited, walk in state: A hundred hungry slaves, with their Dutch kitchens wait.

Huge pans the wretches on their head must bear, Which scarce gigantic Corbulo could rear: Yet they must walk upright beneath the load; Nay, run, and running blow the sparkling flames

abroad.

[torn: Their coats, from botching newly brought, are Unwieldy timber trees in wagons borne, [lie; Stretch'd at their length, beyond their carriage That nod, and threaten ruin from on high. For should their axle break, its overthrow Would crush, and pound to dust, the crowd below;

Nor friends their friends, nor sires their sons could know:

Nor limbs, nor bones, nor carcass would remain:
But a mash'd heap, a hotchpotch of the slain.
One vast destruction; not the soul alone,
But bodies, like the soul, invisible are flown.
Meantime, unknowing of their fellows' fate,
The servants wash the platter, scour the plate,
Then blow the fire, with puffing cheeks, and lay
The rubbers, and the bathing-sheets display;
And oil them first; and each is handy in his way
But he, for whom this busy care they take,
Poor ghost, is wand'ring by the Stygian lake:
Affrighted with the ferryman's grim face;
New to the horrors of that uncouth place;
His passage begs with unregarded pray'r;
And wants two farthing to discharge his fare,
Return we to the dangers of the night;
And, first, behold our houses' dreadful height:
From whence come broken potsherds tumbling
down;

And leaky ware, from garret windows thrown: Well may they break our heads, that mark the flinty stone.

"Tis want of sense to sup abroad too late;
Unless thou first hast settled thy estate.
As many fates attend, thy steps to meet,
As there are waking windows in the street.
Bless the good gods, and think thy chance is rare
To have a pisspot only for thy share.

The scouring drunkard, if he does not fight
Before his bed-time, takes no rest that night.
Passing the tedious hours in greater pain
Than stern Achilles, when his friend was slain:
'T is so ridiculous, but so true withal,
A bully cannot sleep without a brawl:
Yet though his youthful blood be fir'd with wine,
He wants not wit the danger to declino:

Is cautious to avoid the coach and six,
And on the lackeys will no quarrel fix.
His train of flambeaux, and embroider'd coat,
May privilege my lord to walk secure on foot.
But me, who must by movalight homeward
bend,

Or lighted only with a candle's end,
Poor me he fights, if that be fighting, where
He only cudgels, and I only bear.
He stands, and bids me stand: I must abide ;
For he's the stronger, and is drunk beside.

Where did you whet your knife to-night, he
cries,

And shred the leeks that in your stomach rise? Whose windy beans have stuft your guts, and where

Have your black thumbs been dipt in vinegar? With what companion cobbler have you fed, On old ox-cheeks, or he-goat's tougher head? What, are you dumb? Quick, with your an swer, quick,

Before my

foot salutes you with a kick. Say in what nasty cellar under ground, Or what church-porch, your rogueship may be found?

Answer, or answer not, 't is all the same:
He lays me on, and makes me bear the blame.
Before the bar, for beating him, you come;
This is a poor man's liberty in Rome.
You beg his pardon; happy to retreat
With some remaining teeth, to chew your

meat.

Nor is this all; for, when retir'd, you think To sleep securely; when the candles wink, When ev'ry door with iron chains is barr'd, And roaring taverns are no longer heard; The ruffian robbers by no justice aw'd, And unpaid cut-throats soldiers, are abroad, Those venal souls, who, harden'd in each ill, To save complaints and prosecution, kill. Chas'd from their woods and bogs, the padders

come

To this vast city, as their native home;
To live at ease, and safely skulk in Rome.

The forge in fetters only is employ'd;
Our iron mines exhausted and destroy'd -
In shackles; for these villains scarce allov
Goads for the teams, and ploughshares for the
plough.

Oh, happy ages of our ancestors,
Beneath the kings and tribunitial powers!
One jail did all their criminals restrain;
Which, now, the walls of Rome can scarce
contain.

More I could say, more causes I could show
For my departure; but the sun is low
The wagoner grows weary of my stay;
And whips his horses forward on their way.
VOL. 1.-23

S

Farewell; and when, like me, o'erwhelm'd with care,

You to your own Aquinum shall repair,
To take a mouthful of sweet country air,
Be mindful of your friend; and send me word,
What joys your fountains and cool shades af
ford:

Then, to assist your satires, I will come;
And add new venom, when you write of Rome.

THE SIXTH SATIRE OF JUVENAL.

THE ARGUMENT.

This satire, of almost double length to any of the rest, is a bitter invective against the fair sex. 'Tis indeed, a common-place, from whence all the moderns have notoriously stolen their sharp est railleries. In his other satires, the poet has only glanced on some particular women, and ge nerally scourged the men. But this he reserved wholly for the ladies. How they had offended him I know not: but upon the whole matter he is not to be excused for imputing to all, the vices of some few among them. Neither was it generously done of him, to attack the weakest as well as the fairest part of the creation: neither do I know what moral he could reasonably draw from it. It could not be to avoid the whole sex, if all had been true which he alleges against them: for that had been to put an end to human kind. And to bid us beware of their artifices, is a kind of silent acknowledgment, that they have more wit than men: which turns the satire upon us, and particularly upon the poet; who thereby makes a compliment, where he meant a libel. If he intended only to exercise his wit, he has forfeited his judgment, by making the one half of his readers his mortal enemies; and among the men, all the happy lovers, by their own experi ence, will disprove his accusations. The whole world must allow this to be the wittiest of his satires; and truly he had need of all his parts, to maintain, with so much violence, so unjust a charge. I am satisfied he will bring but few over to his opinion: and on that consideration chiefly I ventured to translate him. Though there wanted not another reason, which was, that no one else would undertake it at least, Sir C. S. who could have done mere right to the author, after a long delay, at length absolutely refused so un grateful an employment; and every one will grant, that the work must have been imperfect and lame, if it had appeared without one of the principal members belonging to it. Let the poet therefore bear the blame of his own invention; and let me satisfy the world, that I am not of his opinion. Whatever his Roman ladies were, the English are free from all his imputations. They will read with wonder and abhorrence the vices of an age, which was the most infamous of any on record. They will bless themselves when they behold those examples, related of Domitian's tae: they will give back to antiquity those mon ers it produced; and believe with reason, that the species of those women is extinguished, or at least that they were never here propagated I may safely thertore proceed to the argument of a satire, which no way relating to them; and first observe, that my author makes their lust the most heroic of their vices; the rest are in a manner but digression. He skims thet over; but he

On Ceres' feast, restrain'd from their delight, Few matrons, there, but curse the tedious night:

Few whom their fathers dare salute, such lust
Their kisses have, and come with such a gust.
With ivy now adorn thy doors, and wed;
Such is thy bride, and such thy genial bed.
Think'st thou one man is for one woman meant?
She, sooner, with one eye would be content.

And yet, 't is nois'd, a maid did once appear In some small village, though fame says not where:

"T is possible; but sure no man she found : "T was desert, all, about her father's ground: And vet some lustful god might there make bold,

Are Jove and Mars grown impotent and old?

Another does, with all his motions, move,
And gapes, and grins as in the feat of love;
A third is charm'd with the new opera notes,
Admires the
song,
but on the singer dotes:
The country lady in the box
appears,

Softly she warbles over all she hears;
And sucks in passion, both at eyes and ears.

The rest (when now the long vacation's come, The noisy hall and theatres grown dumb) Their memories to refresh, and cheer their hearts,

In borrow'd breeches act the players' parts.
The poor,
that scarce have wherewithal to eat
Will pinch, to make the singing-boy a treat.
The rich, to buy him, will refuse no price;
And stretch his quail-pipe, till they crack his

voice.

Tragedians, acting love, for lust are sought:
(Though but the parrots of a poet's thought.)
The pleading lawyer, though for counsel us'd,
In chamber-practice often is refus'd.
Still thou wilt have a wife, and father heirs ;
(The product of concurring theatres.)
Perhaps a fencer did thy brows adorn,
And a young sword-man to thy land is born.

Thus Hippia loath'd her old patrician lord,
And left him for a brother of the sword:
To wand'ring Pharos with her love she fled,
To show one monster more than Afric bred:
Forgetting house and husband, left behind,

E'en children too; she sails before the wind;
False to 'em all, but constant to her kind.
But, stranger yet, and harder to conceive,
She could the play-house and the players leave.
Born of rich parentage, and nicely bred
She lodg'd on down, and in a damask bed;
Yet daring now the dangers of the deep,
On a hard mattrass is content to sleep.
Ere this, 't is true, she did her fame expose:
But that, great ladies with great ease can lose.
The tender nymph could the rude ocean bear:
So much her lust was stronger than her fear.
But, had some honest cause her passage prest,
The smallest hardship had disturb'd her breast:
Each inconvenience makes their virtue cold;
But womankind, in ills, is ever bold.
Were she to follow her own lord to sea,
What doubts or scruples would she raise to stay?
Her stomach sick, and her head giddy grows;
The tar and pitch are nauseous to her nose.
But in love's voyage nothing can offend;
Women are never sea-sick with a friend.
Amidst the crew, she walks upon the board,
She eats, she drinks, she handles every cord:
And if she spews 't is thinking of her lord.
Now ask, for whom her friends and fame she
lost?

What youth, what beauty could the th' adulterer boast?

What was the face, for which she could sustain
To be call'd mistress to so base a man?
The gallant, of his days had known the best,
Deep scars were seen indented on his breast,
And all his batter'd limbs requir'd their needful

rest.

A promontory wen, with griesly grace,
Stood high, upon the handle of his face
His blear eyes ran in gutters to his chin:
His beard was stubble, and his cheeks were
thin.

But 't was his fencing did her fancy move
'T is arms and blood and cruelty they love.
But should he quit his trade, and sheath his
sword,

Her lover would begin to be her lord.

This was a private crime; but you shall hear What fruits the sacred brows of monarchs bear: The good old sluggard but began to snore,* When from his side up rose th' imperial whore: She who preferr'd the pleasures of the night To pomps, that are but impotent delight Strode from the palace, with an eager pace, To cope with a more masculine embrace; Muffled she march'd, like Juno in a cloud, Of all her train but one poor wench allow'd,

He tells the famous story of Messalina, wife to the emperor Claudius.