John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series
Page 110
And finding oft occasion to be fan’d,
Ambitious to produce his Lady-hand;
Charg’d with light Summer-rings his fingers sweat, 40
Unable to support a Gem of weight:
Such fulsom Objects meeting every where,
’Tis hard to write, but harder to forbear.
To view so lewd a Town, and to refrain,
What Hoops of Iron cou’d my Spleen contain! 45
When pleading Matho, born 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,
And but the wish’d Occasion does attend 50
From the poor Nobles the last Spoils to rend,
Whom ev’n Spies dread as their Superiour Fiend,
And bribe with Presents, or, when Presents fail,
They send their prostituted Wives for bail:
When Night-performance holds the place of Merit, 55
And Brawn and Back the next of Kin disherit;
For such good Parts are in Preferment’s way,
The Rich Old Madam never fails to pay;
Her Legacies by Nature’s Standard giv’n,
One gains an Ounce, another gains Eleven: 60
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 Lions a declaiming Prize, 65
For which the Vanquish’d Rhetorician Dyes.
What Indignation boils within my Veins,
When perjur’d Guardians, proud with Impious Gains,
Choak up the Streets, too narrow for their Trains!
Whose Wards by want betray’d, to Crimes are led 70
Too foul to Name, too fulsom 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 e’re three: 75
Enjoys his Exile, and, Condemn’d in vain,
Leaves thee, prevailing Province, to complain!
Such Villanies rous’d Horace into Wrath
And ’tis more Noble to pursue his Path,
Than an Old Tale of Diomede to repeat, 80
Or lab’ring after Hercules to sweat,
Or wandring in the winding Maze of Creet;
Or with the winged Smith aloft to fly,
Or flutt’ring Perish with his foolish Boy.
With what Impatience must the Muse behold 85
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 Cieling throws,
And sleeps all over but his wakeful Nose. 90
When he dares hope a Colonel’s Command,
Whose Coursers kept, ran out his Father’s Land;
Who yet a Stripling Nero’s Chariot drove,
Whirl’d o’re the Streets, while his vain Master strove
With boasted Art to please his Eunuch-Love. 95
Wou’d it not make a modest Author dare
To draw his Table-Book within the Square,
And fill with Notes, when lolling at his ease,
Mecenas-like, the happy Rogue he sees
Born by Six weary’d Slaves in open View, 100
Who Cancell’d an old Will, and forg’d a New;
Made wealthy at the small expence 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: 105
So well the fashionable Med’cine thrives,
That now ’tis Practis’d ev’n by Country Wives:
Poys’ning without regard of Fame or Fear:
And spotted Corps are frequent on the Bier.
Wou’dst thou to Honours and Preferments climb, 110
Be bold in Mischief, dare some mighty Crime,
Which Dungeons, Death, or Banishment deserves:
For Virtue is but dryly Prais’d, and Sterves.
Great Men, to great Crimes, owe their Plate Embost,
Fair Palaces, and Furniture of Cost; 115
And high Commands: A Sneaking Sin is lost.
Who can behold that rank Old Letcher 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? 120
If Nature cou’d not, Anger would indite
Such woeful stuff as I or S —— ll 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 125
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 Humane Kind desires, and what they shun, 130
Rage, Passions, Pleasures, Impotence of Will,
Shall this Satyrical Collection fill.
What Age so large a Crop of Vices bore,
Or when was Avarice extended more?
When were the Dice with more Porfusion thrown? 135
The well fill’d Fob not empty’d 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, 140
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 seven Dishes, at a private Meal? 145
Clients of Old were Feasted; now a poor
Divided Dole is dealt a th’ outward Door
Which by the Hungry Rout is soon dispatch’d
The Paltry Largess, too, severely watch’d
E’re given; and ev’ry Face observ’d with Care, 150
That no intruding Guest Usurp a share.
Known, you Receive: The Cryer calls aloud
Our Old Nobility of Trojan Blood,
Who gape among the Croud for their precarious Food.
The Prætors, and the Tribunes Voice is heard; 155
The Freedman justles and will be preferr’d;
First come, first serv’d he Cries; and I, in spight
Of your Great Lordships, will Maintain my Right.
Tho born a Slave tho my torn Ears are bor’d,
’Tis not the Birth, tis Mony makes the Lord. 160
The Rents of Five fair Houses I received
What greater Honours can the Purple give
The Poor Patrician is reduc’d to keep
In Melancholly Walks a Grazier’s Sheep;
Not Pallas nor Licinius had my Treasure; 165
Then let the Sacred Tribunes wait my leasure.
Once a Poor Rogue, ’tis true, I trod the Street.
And trudg’d to Rome upon my Naked Feet
Gold is the greatest God; though yet we see
No Temples rais’d to Mony’s Majesty, 170
No Altars fuming to her Pow’r 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, 175
But since our Knights and Senate account
To what their sordid begging Vails amount,
Judge what a wretched
share the Poor attends,
Whose whole Subsistence on those Alms depends!
Their Household-Fire, their Rayment, and their Food, 180
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, 185
Close mew’d in their Sedans, for fear of air:
And for their Wives produce an empty Chair.
This is my Spouse: Dispatch her with her share.
’Tis Galla: Let her Ladyship but peep:
No, Sir, ’tis pity to disturb her sleep. 190
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 baul;
Then to the Statues; where amidst the Race 195
Of Conqu’ring Rome, some Arab shews 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, weary’d out with fruitless care, 200
Dismiss their hopes of eating, and despair:
Though much against the grain, forc’d to retire,
Buy Roots for Supper, and provide a Fire.
Mean time his Lordship lolls within at ease,
Pamp’ring his Paunch with Foreign Rarities; 205
Both Sea and Land are ransack’d for the Feast;
And his own Gut the sole invited Guest.
Such Plate, such Tables, Dishes dress’d so well,
That whole Estates are swallow’d at a Meal.
Ev’n Parasites are banish’d from his Board: 210
(At once a sordid and luxurious Lord:)
Prodigious Throat, for which whole Boars are drest;
(A Creature form’d to furnish out a Feast.)
But present Punishment pursues his Maw,
When surfeited and swell’d, the Peacock raw 215
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 Jeast, into his Grave is born.
No Age can go beyond us: Future Times 220
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 Satyr spread thy Sails; take all the winds can blow.
Some may, perhaps, demand what Muse can yield 225
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? 230
E’re 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, impail’d upon a Stake: 235
Smear’d o’re with Wax, and set on fire, to light
The Streets, and make a dreadful blaze by night.
Shall They, who drench’d three Uncles in a draught
Of poys’nous Juice, be then in Triumph brought,
Make Lanes among the People where they go, 240
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, 245
Amidst their strokes the Poet 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: 250
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; ’tis past consid’ring time 255
When enter’d once the dangerous Lists of Rhime:
Since none the Living-Villains dare implead,
Arraign them in the Persons of the Dead.
The End of the First Satyr.
Juvenal: The Third Satyr
ARGUMENT of the Third Satyr
The Story of this Satyr speaks it self. Umbritius, the suppos’d Friend of Juvenal, and himself a Poet, is leaving Rome; and retiring to Cumæ. 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 those sordid Arts which he describes, and against which he bitterly inveighs. He reckons up the several Inconveniences 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 Government for starving them. The great Art of this Satyr is particularly shown, in Common Places; and drawing in as many Vices, as cou’d naturally fall into the compass of it.
The Third Satyr
GRIEV’D tho I am, an Ancient Friend to lose,
I like the Solitary Seat he chose:
In quiet Cumæ fixing his Repose:
Where, far from Noisy Rome secure he Lives,
And one more Citizen to Sybil gives; 5
The road to Bajæ, and that soft Recess
Which all the Gods with all their Bounty bless.
Tho I in Prochyta with greater ease
Cou’d live, than in a Street of Palaces.
What Scene so Desart, or so full of Fright, 10
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 Rhime forbear: 15
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, 20
In Mighty Councels with his Nymph retir’d:
Though now the Sacred Shades and Founts are hir’d
By Banish’d Jews, who their whole Wealth can lay
In a small Basket, on a Wisp of Hay;
Yet such our Avarice is, that every Tree 25
Pays for his Head; not Sleep it self 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: 30
The Marble Caves, and Aquæducts we view;
But how Adult’rate now, and different from the true!
How much more Beauteous had the Fountain been
Embellish’t with her first Created Green,
Where Crystal Streams through living Turf had run, 35
Contented with an Urn of Native Stone!
Then thus Umbricius (with an Angry Frown,
And looking back on this degen’rate Town,)
Since Noble Arts in Rome have no support,
And ragged Virtue not a Friend at Court, 40
No Profit rises from th’ ungrateful Stage,
My Poverty encreasing with my Age,
’Tis time
to give my just Disdain a vent,
And, Cursing, leave so base a Government.
Where Dedalus his borrow’d Wings laid by, 45
To that obscure Retreat I chuse to fly:
While yet few furrows on my Face are seen,
While I walk upright, and Old Age is green,
And Lachesis has somewhat left to spin.
Now, now ’tis time to quit this cursed place, 50
And hide from Villains my too honest Face:
Here let Arturius live, and such as he;
Such Manners will with such a Town agree.
Knaves who in full Assemblies have the knack
Of turning Truth to Lies, and White to Black; 55
Can hire large Houses, and oppress the Poor
By farm’d Excise; can cleanse the Common-shoare;
And rent the Fishery; can bear the dead;
And teach their Eyes dissembled Tears to shed,
All this for Gain; for Gain they sell their very Head. 60
These Fellows (see what Fortune’s pow’r can do)
Were once the Minstrels of a Country Show:
Follow’d the Prizes through each paltry Town,
By Trumpet-Cheeks and Bloated Faces known.
But now, grown rich, on drunken Holy-days, 65
At their own Costs exhibit Publick Plays;
Where influenc’d by the Rabble’s bloody will,
With Thumbs bent back, they popularly kill.
From thence return’d, their sordid Avarice rakes
In Excrements again, and hires the Jakes. 70
Why hire they not the Town, not ev’ry thing,
Since such as they have Fortune in a String?
Who, for her pleasure, can her Fools advance;
And toss ‘em topmost on the Wheel of Chance.
What’s Rome to me, what bus’ness have I there, 75
I who can neither Lye, nor falsely Swear?
Nor Praise my Patron’s undeserving Rhimes,
Nor yet comply with him, nor with his Times;
Unskill’d in Schemes by Planets to foreshow,
Like Canting Rascals, how the Wars will go: 80
I neither will, nor can Prognosticate
To the young gaping Heir, his Father’s Fate:
Nor in the Entrails of a Toad have pry’d,
Nor carry’d Bawdy Presents to a Bride:
For want of these Town Virtues, thus, alone, 85
I go conducted on my way by none:
Like a dead Member from the Body rent;
Maim’d, and unuseful to the Government.
Who now is lov’d, but he who loves the Times,
Conscious of close Intrigues, and dipt in Crimes; 90
Lab’ring with Secrets which his Bosom burn,
Yet never must to publick light return?
They get Reward alone who can Betray: