THE SECOND EPISTLE OF THE SECOND BOOK of HORACE.
[]You love a Verſe, take ſuch as I can ſend.
2 A Frenchman comes, preſents you with his Boy,
Bows and begins.—"This Lad, Sir, is of Blois:
"Obſerve his Shape how clean! his Locks how curl'd!
"My only Son, I'd have him ſee the World:
"His French is pure; his Voice too—you ſhall hear—
"Sir, he's your Slave, for twenty pound a year.
[4] "Mere Wax as yet, you faſhion him with eaſe,
"Your Barber, Cook, Upholſt'rer, what you pleaſe.
"A perfect Genius at an Opera-Song—
"To ſay too much, might do my Honour wrong:
"Take him with all his Virtues, on my word;
"His whole Ambition was to ſerve a Lord,
"But Sir, to you, with what wou'd I not part?
"Tho' faith, I fear 'twill break his Mother's heart.
"Once, (and but once) I caught him in a Lye,
"And then, unwhipp'd, he had the grace to cry:
"The Fault he has I fairly ſhall reveal,
"(Cou'd you o'erlook but that)—it is," to ſteal.
3 If, after this, you took the graceleſs Lad,
Cou'd you complain, my Friend, he prov'd ſo bad?
Faith, in ſuch caſe, if you ſhould proſecute,
I think Sir Godfry ſhould decide the Suit;
Who ſent the Thief who ſtole the Caſh, away,
And puniſh'd him that put it in his way.
4 Conſider then, and judge me in this light;
I told you when I went, I could not write;
[5] You ſaid the ſame; and are you diſcontent
With Laws, to which you gave your own aſſent?
Nay worſe, to aſk for Verſe at ſuch a time!
D'ye think me good for nothing but to rhime?
5 In ANNA'S Wars, a Soldier poor and old,
Had dearly earn'd a little purſe of Gold:
Tir'd with a tedious March, one luckleſs night,
He ſlept, poor Dog! and loſt it, to a doit.
This put the Man in ſuch a deſp'rate Mind,
Between Revenge, and Grief, and Hunger join'd,
Againſt the Foe, himſelf, and all Mankind,
He leapt the Trenches, ſcal'd a Caſtle-Wall,
Tore down a Standard, took the Fort and all.
"Prodigious well!" his great Commander cry'd,
Gave him much Praiſe, and ſome Reward beſide.
Next pleas'd his Excellence a Town to batter;
(Its Name I know not, and it's no great matter)
"Go on, my Friend (he cry'd) ſee yonder Walls!
"Advance and conquer! go where Glory calls!
"More Honours, more Rewards, attend the Brave"—
Don't you remember what Reply he gave?
[6] "D'ye think me, noble Gen'ral, ſuch a Sot?
"Let him take Caſtles who has ne'er a Groat."
6 Bred up at home, full early I begun
To read in Greek, the Wrath of Peleus' Son.
Beſides, my Father taught me from a Lad,
The better Art to know the good from bad:
(And little ſure imported to remove,
To hunt for Truth in Maudlin's learned Grove.)
But knottier Points we knew not half ſo well,
Depriv'd us ſoon of our Paternal Cell;
And certain Laws, by Suff'rers thought unjuſt,
Deny'd all Poſts of Profit or of Truſt:
Hopes after Hopes of pious Papiſts fail'd,
While mighty WILLIAM'S thundring Arm prevail'd.
For Right Hereditary tax'd and fin'd,
He ſtuck to Poverty with Peace of Mind;
And me, the Muſes help'd to undergo it;
Convict a Papiſt He, and I a Poet.
But (thanks to Homer) ſince I live and thrive,
Indebted to no Prince or Peer alive,
If I would ſcribble, rather than repoſe.
7 Years foll'wing Years, ſteal ſomething ev'ry day,
At laſt they ſteal us from our ſelves away;
In one our Frolicks, one Amuſements end,
In one a Miſtreſs drops, in one a Friend:
This ſubtle Thief of Life, this paltry Time,
What will it leave me, if it ſnatch my Rhime?
If ev'ry Wheel of that unweary'd Mill
That turn'd ten thouſand Verſes, now ſtands ſtill.
8 But after all, what wou'd you have me do?
When out of twenty I can pleaſe not two;
When this Heroicks only deigns to praiſe,
Sharp Satire that, and that Pindaric lays?
One likes the Pheaſant's wing, and one the leg;
The Vulgar boil, the Learned roaſt an Egg;
Hard Taſk! to hit the Palate of ſuch Gueſts,
When Oldfield loves, what Dar—n—f deteſts.
9 But grant I may relapſe, for want of Grace,
Again to rhime, can London be the Place?
[8] Who there his Muſe, or Self, or Soul attends?
In Croúds and Courts, Law, Buſineſs, Feaſts and Friends?
My Counſel ſends to execute a Deed:
A Poet begs me, I will hear him read:
In Palace-Yard at Nine you'll find me there—
At Ten for certain, Sir, in Bloomſb'ry-Square—
Before the Lords at Twelve my Cauſe comes on—
There's a Rehearſal, Sir, exact at One.—
"Oh but a Wit can ſtudy in the Streets,
"And raiſe his Mind above the Mob he meets."
Not quite ſo well however as one ought;
A Hackney-Coach may chance to ſpoil a Thought,
And then a nodding Beam, or Pig of Lead,
God knows, may hurt the very ableſt Head.
Have you not ſeen at Guild-hall's narrow Paſs,
Two Aldermen diſpute it with an Aſs?
And Peers give way, exalted as they are,
Ev'n to their own S-r-v—nce in a Carr?
10Go, lofty Poet! and in ſuch a Croud,
Sing thy ſonorous Verſe—but not aloud.
[9] Alas! to Grotto's and to Groves we run,
To Eaſe and Silence, ev'ry Muſe's Son:
Blackmore himſelf, for any grand Effort,
How ſhall I rhime in this eternal Roar?
How match the Bards whom none e'er match'd before?
The Man, who ſtretch'd in Iſis' calm Retreat
To Books and Study gives ſev'n years compleat,
See! ſtrow'd with learned duſt, his Night-cap on,
He walks, an Object new beneath the Sun!
The Boys flock round him, and the People ſtare:
So ſtiff, ſo mute! ſome Statue, you would ſwear,
Stept ſrom its Pedeſtal to take the Air.
And here, while Town, and Court, and City roars,
With Mobs, and Duns, and Soldiers, at their doors;
Shall I, in London, act this idle part?
Compoſing Songs, for Fools to get by heart?
11 The Temple late two Brother Sergeants ſaw,
Who deem'd each other Oracles of Law;
[8] [...]
[9] [...]
[10] With equal Talents, theſe congenial Souls
One lull'd th' Exchequer, and one ſtunn'd the Rolls;
Each had a Gravity wou'd make you ſplit,
And ſhook his head at M—y, as a Wit.
'Twas,"Sir your Law"—and"Sir, your Eloquence"—
"Yours Cooper's Manner—and yours Talbot's Senſe."
12 we diſpoſe of all poetic Merit,
Yours Milton's Genius, and mine Homer's Spirit.
Call Tibbald Shakeſpear, and he'll ſwear the Nine
Dear Cibber! never match'd one Ode of thine.
Lord! how we ſtrut thro' Merlin's Cave, to ſee
No Poets there, but Stephen, you, and me.
Walk with reſpect behind, while we at eaſe
Weave Laurel Crowns, and take what Names we pleaſe.
"My dear Tibullus!" if that will not do,
"Let me be Horace, and be Ovid you.
"Or, I'm content, allow me Dryden's ſtrains,
"And you ſhall riſe up Otway for your pains."
13 Much do I ſuffer, much, to keep in peace
This jealous, waſpiſh, wrong-head, rhiming Race;
[11] And much muſt flatter, if the Whim ſhould bite
To ſeek applauſe by printing what I write:
But let the Fit paſs o'er, I'm wiſe enough,
To ſtop my ears to their confounded ſtuff.
14 In vain, bad Rhimers all mankind reject,
They treat themſelves with moſt profound reſpect;
'Tis to ſmall purpoſe that you hold your tongue,
Each prais'd within, is happy all day long.
But how ſeverely with themſelves proceed
The Men, who write ſuch Verſe as we can read?
Their own ſtrict Judges, not a word they ſpare
That wants or Force, or Light, or Weight, or Care,
Howe'er unwillingly it quits its place,
Nay tho' at Court (perhaps) it may find grace:
Such they'll degrade; and ſometimes, in its ſtead,
In downright Charity revive the dead;
Mark where a bold expreſſive Phraſe appears,
Bright thro' the rubbiſh of ſome hundred years;
Command old words that long have ſlept, to wake,
Such as wiſe Bacon, or brave Raleigh ſpake;
[12] Or bid the new be Engliſh, Ages hence,
(For Uſe will father what's begot by Senſe)
Pour the full Tide of Eloquence along,
Serenely pure, and yet divinely ſtrong,
Rich with the Treaſures of each foreign Tongue;
Prune the luxuriant, the uncouth refine,
But ſhow no mercy to an empty line;
Then poliſh all, with ſo much life and eaſe,
You think 'tis Nature, and a knack to pleaſe:
"But Eaſe in writing flows from Art, not Chance,
"As thoſe move eaſieſt who have learn'd to dance."
15 If ſuch the Plague and pains to write by rule,
Better (ſay I) be pleas'd, and play the fool;
Call, if you will, bad Rhiming a diſeaſe,
It gives men happineſs, or leaves them eaſe.
There liv'd, in primo Georgii (they record)
A worthy Member, no ſmall Fool, a Lord;
Who, tho' the Houſe was up, delighted ſate,
Heard, noted, anſwer'd, as in full Debate:
[13] In all but this, a man of ſober Life,
Fond of his Friend, and civil to his Wife,
Not quite a Mad-man, tho' a Paſty fell,
And much too wiſe to walk into a Well:
Him, the damn'd Doctors and his Friends immur'd,
They bled, they cupp'd, they purg'd; in ſhort, they cur'd:
Whereat the Gentleman began to ſtare—
My Friends? he cry'd, p—x take you for your care!
That from a Patriot of diſtinguiſh'd note,
Have bled and purg'd me to a ſimple Vote.
17 Well, on the whole, then Proſe muſt be my fate:
Wiſdom (curſe on it) will come ſoon or late.
There is a time when Poets will grow dull:
I'll e'en leave Verſes to the Boys at ſchool:
To Rules of Poetry no more confin'd,
I learn to ſmooth and harmonize my Mind,
Teach ev'ry Thought within its bounds to roll,
And keep the equal Meaſure of the Soul.
18 Soon as I enter at my Country door,
My Mind reſumes the thread it dropt before;
[14] Thoughts, which at Hyde-Park-Corner I forgot,
Meet and rejoin me, in my penſive Grott.
There all alone, and Compliments apart,
I aſk theſe ſober queſtions of my Heart.
19 If, when the more you drink, the more you crave,
You tell the Doctor; when the more you have,
The more you want, why not with equal eaſe
Confeſs as well your Folly, as Diſeaſe?
The Heart reſolves this matter in a trice,
"Men only feel the Smart, but not the Vice."
20 When golden Angels ceaſe to cure the Evil,
You give all royal Witchcraft to the Devil:
When ſervile Chaplains cry, that Birth and Place
Indue a Peer with Honour, Truth, and Grace,
Look in that Breaſt, moſt dirty D—! be fair,
Say, can you find out one ſuch Lodger there?
Yet ſtill, not heeding what your Heart can teach,
You go to Church to hear theſe Flatt'rers preach.
Indeed, could Wealth beſtow or Wit or Merit,
A grain of Courage, or a ſpark of Spirit,
[15] The wiſeſt Man might bluſh, I muſt agree,
If D *** lov'd Sixpence, more than he.
21 If there be truth in Law, and Uſe can give
A Property, that's yours on which you live.
Delightful Abs-court, iſ its Fields afford
Their Fruits to you, confeſſes you its Lord:
All He—te's Hens, nay Partridge, ſold to town,
His Ven'ſon too, a Guinea makes your own:
He bought at thouſands, what with better wit
You purchaſe as you want, and bit by bit;
Now, or long ſince, what diff'rence will be found?
You pay a Penny, and he paid a Pound.
22 H—te himſelf, and ſuch large-acred Men,
Lords of fat E'ſham, or of Lincoln Fen,
Buy every ſtick of Wood that lends them heat,
Buy every Pullct they afford to eat.
Yet theſe are Wights, who fondly call their own
Half that the Dev'l o'erlooks from Lincoln Town.
The Laws of God, as well as of the Land,
Abhor, a Perpetuity ſhould ſtand:
[16] Eſtates have wings, and hang in Fortune's pow'r
23 Looſe on the point of ev'ry wav'ring Hour;
Ready, by force, or of your own accord,
By ſale, at leaſt by death, to change their Lord.
Man? and for ever? Wretch! what wou'dſt thou have?
Heir urges Heir, like Wave impelling Wave:
All vaſt Poſſeſſions (juſt the ſame the caſe
Whether you call them Villa, Park, or Chace)
Alas, my BATHURST! what will they avail?
Join Cotſwold Hills to Saperton's fair Dale,
Let riſing Granaries and Temples here,
There mingled Farms and Pyramids appear,
Link Towns to Towns with Avenues of Oak,
Encloſe whole Downs in Walls, 'tis all a joke!
Inexorable Death ſhall level all,
And Trees, and Stones, and Farms, and Farmer fall.
24 Gold, Silver, Iv'ry, Vaſes ſculptur'd high,
Paint, Marble, Gems, and Robes of Perſian Dye,
There are who have not—and thank Heav'n there are
Who, if they have not, think not worth their care.
[17] 25 Talk what you will of Taſte, my Friend, you'll find,
Two of a Face, as ſoon as of a Mind.
Why, of two Brothers, rich and reſtleſs one
Ploughs, burns, manures, and toils from Sun to Sun;
The other ſlights, for Women, Sports, and Wines,
All Townſhend's Turnips, and all Grovenor's Mines:
Why one like Bu—with Pay and Scorn content,
Bows and votes on, in Court and Parliament;
One, driv'n by ſtrong Benevolence of Soul,
Shall fly, like Oglethorp, from Pole to Pole:
Is known alone to that Directing Pow'r,
Who forms the Genius in the natal Hour,
That God of Nature, who, within us ſtill,
Inclines our Action, not conſtrains our Will;
Various of Temper, as of Face or Frame,
Each Individual: His great End the ſame.
26 Yes, Sir, how ſmall ſoever be my heap,
A part I will enjoy, as well as keep.
My Heir may ſigh, and think it want of Grace
A man ſo poor wou'd live without a Place:
[18] But ſure no Statute in his favour ſays,
How free, or frugal, I ſhall paſs my days:
I, who at ſome times ſpend, at others ſpare,
Divided between Careleſneſs and Care.
'Tis one thing madly to diſperſe my ſtore,
Another, not to heed to treaſure more;
Glad, like a Boy, to ſnatch the firſt good day,
And pleas'd, if ſordid Want be far away.
27 What is't to me (a Paſſenger God wot)
Whether my Veſſel be firſt-rate or not?
The Ship it ſelf may make a better figure,
But I that ſail, am neither leſs nor bigger.
I neither ſtrut with ev'ry fav'ring breath,
Nor ſtrive with all the Tempeſt in my teeth.
In Pow'r, Wit, Figure, Virtue, Fortune, plac'd
Behind the foremoſt, and before the laſt.
28"But why all this of Av'rice? I have none."
I wiſh you joy, Sir, of a Tyrant gone;
But does no other lord it at this hour,
As wild and mad? the Avarice of Pow'r?
[19] Does neither Rage inflame, nor Fear appall?
Not the black Fear of Death, that ſaddens all?
With Terrors round can Reaſon hold her throne,
Deſpiſe the known, nor tremble at th' unknown?
Survey both Worlds, intrepid and entire,
In ſpight of Witches, Devils, Dreams, and Fire?
Pleas'd to look forward, pleas'd to look behind,
And count each Birth-day with a grateful mind?
Has Life no ſourneſs, drawn ſo near its end?
Can'ſt thou endure a Foe, forgive a Friend?
Has Age but melted the rough parts away,
As Winter-fruits grow mild e'er they decay?
Or will you think, my Friend, your buſineſs done,
When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one?
29 Learn to live well, or fairly make your Will;
You've play'd, and lov'd, and eat, and drank your fill:
Walk ſober off; before a ſprightlier Age
Comes titt'ring on, and thoves you from the ſtage:
Leave ſuch to trifle with more grace and eaſe,
Whom Folly pleaſes, and whoſe Follies pleaſe.
FINIS.