by John Dryden
For keeping honest Counsels none will pay.
He who can Verres, when he will, accuse, 95
The Purse of Verres may at Pleasure use:
But let not all the Gold which Tagus hides,
And pays the Sea in Tributary Tides,
Be Bribe sufficient to corrupt thy Breast;
Or violate with Dreams thy peaceful rest. 100
Great Men with jealous Eyes the Friend behold,
Whose secrecy they purchase with their Gold.
I haste to tell thee, nor shall Shame oppose,
What Confidents our Wealthy Romans chose:
And whom I most abhor: To speak my Mind, 105
I hate, in Rome, a Grecian Town to find:
To see the Scum of Greece transplanted here,
Receiv’d like Gods, is what I cannot bear.
Nor Greeks alone, but Syrians here abound,
Obscene Orontes, diving under Ground, 110
Conveys his Wealth to Tyber’s hungry Shoars,
And fattens Italy with Foreign Whores:
Hether their crooked Harps and Customs come;
All find Receipt in Hospitable Rome.
The Barbarous Harlots crowd the Publick Place: 115
Go Fools, and purchase an unclean Embrace;
The painted Mitre court, and the more painted Face.
Old Romulus, and Father Mars look down,
Your Herdsman Primitive, your homely Clown
Is turn’d a Beau in a loose tawdry Gown. 120
His once unkem’d, and horrid Locks, behold
Stilling sweet Oyl; his Neck inchain’d with Gold:
Aping the Foreigners, in ev’ry Dress;
Which, bought at greater cost, becomes him less.
Mean time they wisely leave their Native Land, 125
From Sicyon, Samos, and from Alaband,
And Amydon, to Rome they Swarm in Shoals:
So Sweet and Easie is the Gain from Fools.
Poor Refugies at first, they purchase here:
And, soon as Denizen’d, they domineer: 130
Grow to the Great, a flatt’ring Servile Rout:
Work themselves inward, and their Patrons out.
Quick Witted, Brazen-fac’d, with fluent Tongues,
Patient of Labours, and dissembling Wrongs
Riddle me this, and guess him if you can, 135
Who bears a Nation in a single Man?
A Cook, a Conjuror, a Rhetorician,
A Painter, Pedant, a Geometrician,
A Dancer on the Ropes, and a Physician.
All things the hungry Greek exactly knows: 140
And bid him go to Heav’n, to Heav’n he goes.
In short, no Scythian, Moor, or Thracian born,
But in that Town which Arms and Arts adorn.
Shall he be plac’d above me at the Board,
In Purple Cloath’d, and lolling like a Lord? 145
Shall he before me sign, whom t’other Day
A small-craft Vessel hither did convey;
Where, stow’d with Prunes, and rotten Figs, he lay?
How little is the Priviledge become
Of being born a Citizen of Rome! 150
The Greeks get all by fulsom Flatteries;
A most peculiar Stroke they have at Lies.
They make a Wit of their Insipid Friend;
His blobber-Lips, and beetle-Brows commend;
His long Crane Neck, and narrow Shoulders Praise; 155
You’d think they were describing Hercules.
A creaking Voice for a clear Trebble goes;
Tho harsher than a Cock that Treads and Crows.
We can as grosly praise; but, to our Grief,
No Flatt’ry but from Grecians gains belief. 160
Besides these Qualities, we must agree
They Mimick better on the Stage than we
The Wife, the Whore, the Shepherdess they play,
In such a Free, and such a Graceful way,
That we believe a very Woman shown, 165
And fancy something underneath the Gown.
But not Antiochus, nor Stratocles,
Our Ears and Ravish’d Eyes can only please:
The Nation is compos’d of such as these.
All Greece is one Commedian: Laugh, and they 170
Return it louder than an Ass can bray:
Grieve, and they Grieve; if you Weep silently,
There seems a silent Eccho in their Eye:
They cannot Mourn like you; but they can Cry.
Call for a Fire, their Winter Cloaths they take: 175
Begin but you to shiver, and they shake:
In Frost and Snow, if you complain of Heat,
They rub th’ unsweating Brow, and Swear they Sweat.
We live not on the Square with such as these:
Such are our Betters who can better please: 180
Who Day and Night are like a Looking-Glass;
Still ready to reflect their Patron’s Face.
The Panegyrick Hand, and lifted Eye,
Prepar’d for some new Piece of Flattery.
Ev’n Nastiness, Occasions will afford; 185
They praise a belching, or well-pissing Lord.
Besides, there’s nothing Sacred, nothing free
From bold Attempts of their rank Leachery
Through the whole Family their labours run;
The Daughter is debauch’d, the Wife is won: 190
Nor scapes the Bridegroom, or the blooming Son.
If none they find for their lewd purpose fit,
They with the Walls and very Floors commit.
They search the Secrets of the House, and so
Are worshipp’d there, and fear’d for what they know. 195
And, now we talk of Grecians, cast a view
On what, in Schools, their Men of Morals do;
A rigid Stoick his own Pupil slew.
A Friend, against a Friend, of his own Cloath,
Turn’d Evidence, and murther’d on his Oath. 200
What room is left for Romans, in a Town
Where Grecians rule, and Cloaks control the Gown?
Some Diphilus, or some Protogenes,
Look sharply out, our Senators to seize:
Engross ‘em wholly, by their Native Art, 205
And fear no Rivals in their Bubbles heart:
One drop of Poison in my Patron’s Ear,
One slight suggestion of a senseless fear,
Infus’d, with cunning, serves to ruine me;
Disgrac’d, and banish’d from the Family. 210
In vain forgotten Services I boast;
My long dependance in an hour is lost:
Look round the World, what Country will appear,
Where Friends are left with greater ease than here?
At Rome (nor think me partial to the Poor) 215
All Offices of ours are out of Door:
In vain we rise, and to their Levees run;
My Lord himself is up, before, and gone:
The Praetor bids his Lictors mend their pace,
Lest his Collegue outstrip him in the Race: 220
The childless Matrons are, long since, awake;
And for Affronts the tardy Visits take.
’Tis frequent, here, to see a free-born Son
On the left-hand of a Rich Hireling run:
Because the wealthy Rogue can throw away, 225
For half a Brace of Bouts, a Tribune’s pay
But you, poor Sinner, tho you love the Vice,
And like the Whore, demurr upon the Price:
And, frighted with the wicked Sum, forbear
To lend a hand, and help her from the Chair. 230
Produce a Witness of unblemish’d life,
Holy as Numa, or as Numa’s Wife,
Or him who bid th’ unhallow’d Flames retire;
And snatch’d the trembling Goddess from the Fire.
The Question is not put how far extends 235
His Piety, but what he yearly spends:
Quick, to the Bus’ness; how he Lives and Eats;
How largely Gives; how splendidly he Treats:
How many thousand Acres feed his Sheep,
What are his Rents, what Servants does he keep? 240
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; 245
And even the Gods, that other Means deny,
In Conscience must absolve ‘em, when they lye.
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, 250
The Wretch and all his Wardrobe are a Jest:
The greasie Gown, sully’d with often turning,
Gives a good hint, to say The Man’s in Mourning:
Or if the Shoo be ript, or patches put,
He’s wounded! see the Plaister on his Foot. 255
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 260
Is not the Value of the settled Rate:
The Sons of happy Punks, the Pandars Heir,
Are priviledg’d to sit in triumph there,
To clap the first, and rule the Theatre.
Up to the Galleries, for shame, retreat: 265
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? 270
The Poor were wise, who by the Rich oppress’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 Virtues aid, who lie 275
Plung’d in the depth of helpless Poverty.
At Rome ’tis worse; where House-rent by the Year,
And Servants Bellies cost so Dev’llish dear;
And Tavern Bills run high for hungry Chear.
To drink or eat in Earthen Ware we scorn, 280
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, 285
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 Mimick Yearly gives the same Delights;
And in the Mother’s Arms the Clownish Infant frights. 290
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. 295
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, tho all things here 300
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? 305
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 Hair,
The Consecrated Locks to Temples bear:
Pay Tributary Cracknels, which he sells; 310
And, with our Offerings, help to raise his Vails.
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: 315
And ’tis the Village Masons 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 Cumæ we can sleep, quite round the Year, 320
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) 325
Thy own third Story smoaks; while thou, supine,
Art drench’d in Fumes of undigested Wine.
For if the lowest Floors already burn,
Cock-lofts and Garrets soon will take the Turn.
Where thy tame Pidgeons next the Tiles were bred, 330
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 Cup-board’s Head six Earthen Pitchers grac’d,
Beneath ‘em was his Trusty Tankard plac’d: 335
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 Poetick Bread, 340
And with Heroick Verse luxuriously were fed.
’Tis true, poor Codrus nothing had to boast,
And yet poor Codrus all that Nothing lost;
Beg’d naked through the Streets of wealthy Rome;
And found not one to feed, or take him home. 345
But if the Palace of Arturius burn,
The Nobles change their Cloaths, the Matrons mourn;
The City Prætor will no Pleadings hear;
The very Name of Fire we hate and fear:
And look agast, as if the Gauls were here. 350
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; 355
While others, Images for Altars give;
One Books and Skreens, and Pallas to the Brest;
Another Bags of Gold, and he gives best.
Childless Arturius, vastly rich before,
Thus by his Losses multiplies his Store: 360
Suspected for Accomplice to the Fire,
That burnt his Palace but to build it higher.
But, cou’d you be content to bid adieu
To the dear Play-house, and the Players too,
Sweet Country Seats are purchas’d ev’ry where, 365
With Lands and Gardens, at less price, than here
You hire a darksom Doghole by the year.
A small Convenience, decently prepar’d,
A shallow Well, that rises in your yard,
That spreads his easie Crystal Streams around, 370
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. 375
’Tis frequent, here, f
or want of sleep to dye;
Which Fumes of undigested Feasts deny;
And, with imperfect heat, in languid Stomachs fry.
What House secure from noise the poor can keep,
When ev’n the Rich can scarce afford to sleep? 380
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 Waggoners, that curse their standing Teams, 385
Would wake ev’n drowsie Drusus from his Dreams.
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. 390
Yet still he reaches, first, the Publick Place:
The prease 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: 395
A Rafter breaks his Head, or Chairman’s Pole:
Stockin’d with loads of fat Town-dirt he goes;
And some Rogue-Souldier, with his Hobnail’d Shoos,
Indents his Legs behind in bloody rows.
See with what Smoke our Doles we celebrate: 400
A hundred Ghests, invited, walk in state:
A hundred hungry Slaves, with their Dutch Kitchins wait.
Huge Pans the Wretches on their heads must bear;
Which scarce Gygantick Corbulo cou’d rear:
Yet they must walk upright beneath the load; 405
Nay run, and running blow the sparkling flames abroad.
Their Coats, from botching newly brought, are torn:
Unwieldy Timber-trees, in Waggons born,
Stretch’d at their length, beyond their Carriage lye;
That nod, and threaten ruin from on high. 410
For, should their Axel break, its overthrow
Wou’d crush, and pound to dust, the Crowd below;
Nor Friends their Friends, nor Sires their Sons cou’d know:
Nor Limbs, nor Bones, nor Carcass wou’d remain:
But a mash’d heap, a Hotchpotch of the Slain. 415
One vast destruction; not the Soul alone,
But Bodies, like the Soul, invisible are flown.
Mean time, unknowing of their Fellows Fate,
The Servants wash the Platter, scour the Plate,
Then blow the Fire, with puffing Cheeks, and lay 420
The Rubbers, and the Bathing-sheets display;
And oyl them first; and each is handy in his way.
But he, for whom this busie care they take,
Poor Ghost, is wandring by the Stygian Lake:
Affrighted with the Ferryman’s grim Face; 425
New to the Horrours of that uncouth place;
