Page images
PDF
EPUB

The lost estate what more than madness reigns,
When one short sitting many hundreds drains,
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?
Clients of old were feasted; now a poor
Divided dole is dealt at th' outward door;
Which by the hungry rout is soon dispatch'd:
The paltry largess, too, severely watch'd,
Ere given; and every face observ'd with care,
That no intruding guests usurp a share.
Known, you receive: the crier calls aloud
Our old nobility of Trojan-blood,
Who gape among the crowd for their precarious
The pretors, and the tribunes' voice is heard;
The freeman justles, and will be preferr'd;

[food.

Such plate, such tables, dishes drest so well,
That whole estates are swallow'd at a meal.
Ev'n parasites are banish'd from his board
(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
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 jest, into his grave is borne.

No age can go beyond us, future times
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, Satire, spread thy sails; take all the winds

can blow.

Some may, perhaps, demand what Muse can yield
Sufficient strength for such a spacious field?
From whence can be deriv'd so large a vein,
Bold truth to speak, and spoken to maintain?
When god-like freedom is so far bereft
The noble mind, that scarce the name is left?
Ere scandalum magnatum was begot,
No matter if the great forgave or not:
But if that honest licence now you take,
If into rogues omnipotent you rake,
Death is your doom, impal'd upon a stake;
Sinear'd o'er with wax, and set on blaze, to light
The streets, and make a dreadful fire by night.

First come, first serv'd, he cries; and I, in spite
Of your great lordships, will maintain my right.
Though born a slave, though my torn ears are bor'd,
"Tis not the birth, 'tis money makes the lord.
The rent of five fair houses I receive;

What greater honours can the purple give ?
The poor patrician is reduc'd to keep,
In melancholy walks, a grazier's sheep:
Not Pallus nor Licinius had my treasure;
Then let the sacred tribunes wait my leisure.
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 money's majesty,

Shall they who drench three uncles in a draught

No altars fuming to her power divine,

Such as to valour, peace, and virtue shine,

Of poisonous juice be then in triumph brought, Make lanes among the people where they go,

And faith, and concord: where the stork on high And, mounted high on downy chariots, throw

Seems to salute her infant progeny:

Presaging pious love with her auspicious cry.

But since our knights and senators 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 raiment, and their food,

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,
Amidst their strokes the poet gets no harm :

Achilles may in epic verse be slain,

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,
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.

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 bawl;
Then to the statues; where, amidst the race
Of conquering Rome, some Arab shows his face,
Inscrib'd with titles, and profanes the place;
Fit to be pist against, and somewhat more.
The great man, home-conducted, shuts his door;
Old clients, weary'd out with fruitless care,
Dismiss their hopes of eating, and despair.
Though much against the grain, fore't to retire,
Buy roots for supper, and provide a fire.

Meantime his lordship lolls within at ease, Pampering his paunch with foreign rarities; Both sea and land are ransack'd for the feast; And his own gut the sole invited guest.

And none of all his myrmidons complain:
Hylas may drop his pitcher, none will cry;
Not if he drown himself for company:
But when Lucilius brandishes his pen,
And flashes in the face of guilty men,
A cold sweat stands in drops on every part;
And.rage succeeds to tears, revenge to smart:
Muse, be advis'd; 'tis past considering-time,
When enter'd once the dangerous lists of rhyme:
Since none the living villains dare implead,
Arraign them in the persons of the dead.

THE THIRD SATIRE OF

JUVENAL.

THE ARGUMENT.

The story of this satire speaks itself. Umbritius, the supposed friend of Juvenal, and himself a poet, is leaving Rome, and retiring to Cume. 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

[ocr errors][merged small]

bread at Rome: that none but flatterers make | Knaves, who in full assemblies have the knack

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 inconveniencies which arise from a city-life; and the many dangers which attend it. Upbraids the noblemen with covetousness, for not reward ing good poets; and arraigns the government for starving them. The great art of this satire is particularly shown, in common-places; and a drawing in as many vices, as could naturally fall into the compass of it.

GRIEV'D though 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 Sibyl gives:
The road to Bajæ, and that soft recess
Which all the gods with all their bounty bless.
Though I in Prochyta with greater ease
Could live, than in a street of palaces.
What scenes so desert, or so full of fright,
As towering houses tumbling in the night,
And Rome on fire beheld by its own blazing light?
But worse than all the clattering tiles, and worse
Than thousand padders, is the poet's curse.
Rogues that in dog-days cannot rhyme forbear:
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 model'd once the Roman state,
In mighty councils 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 whisp of hay;
Yet such our avarice is, that every tree
Pays for his head; nor sleep itself is free :
Nor place, nor persons, now are sacred held,
From their own grove the Musés are expell'd.
Into this lonely vale our steps we bend,
I and my sullen discontented friend :
The marble cave, and aqueducts, we view;

But how adulterate now, and different from the

true;

Of turning truth to lies, and white to black;
Can hire large houses, and oppress the poor
Ey farm'd excise; can cleanse the common shore;
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.
These fellows (see what fortune's power 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 holidays,
At their own costs exhibit public plays:
Where, influenc'd by the rabble's bloody will,
With thumbs b nt back, they popularly kill.
From thence return'd, their sordid avarice rakes
In excrements again, and hires the jakes.
Why hire they not the town, not every thing,
Since such as they have Fortune in a string?
Who, for her pleasure, can her fools advance;
And toss them topmost on the wheel of chance.
What's Rome to me, what business have I there,
I who can neither lie, nor falsely swear?
Nor praise my patron's undeserving rhymes,
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:
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,
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;
Labouring with secrets which his bosom burn,
Yet never must to public light return?
They get reward alone who can betray:
For keeping honest counsels none will pay.
He who can Verres, when he will, accuse,
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 the breast;
Or violate with dreams thy peaceful rest.
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 confidence our wealthy Romans chose:

How much more beauteous had the fountain been
Embellish'd with her first created green,
Where crystal streams through living turf had run, And whom I most abhor: to speak my mind,

Contented with an urn of native stone!

Then thus Umbritius (with an angry frown,
And looking back on this degenerate town,)
"Since noble arts in Rome have no support,
And ragged virtue not a friend at court,
No profit rises from th' ungrateful stage,
My poverty increasing with my age,
'Tis time to give my just disdain a vent,
Aud, cursing, leave so base a government.
Where Dædalus his borrow'd wings laid by,
To that obscure retreat I choose 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,
And hide from villains my too honest face:
Here let Arturius live, and such as he :

Such manners will with such a town agree.

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,
Conveys his wealth to Tyber's hungry shores,
And fattens Italy with foreign whores:
Hither their crooked harps and customs come!
All find receipt in hospitable Rome.
The ba barous harlots crowd the public place:
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.
His once unkemm'd and horrid locks behold
Stilling sweet oil: his neck enchain'd with gold:

Aping the foreigners in every dress; Which, bought at greater cost, becomes him less. Meantime they wisely leave their native land, From Sycion, Samos and from Alaband, And Amydon, to Rome they swarm in shoals: So sweet and easy is the gain from fools. Poor refugees at first, they purchase here : And, soon as denizen'd, they domineer. Grow to the great, a flattering 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, Who bears a nation in a single man? A cook, a conjurer, a rhetorician, A painter, pedant, a geometrician, A dancer on the ropes, and a physician. All things the hungry Greek exactly knows: And bid him go to Heaven, to Heaven he goes. In short, no Scythian, Moor, or Thracian born, But in that town which arms and arts adorn, Sha't he be plac'd above me at the board, In purple cloth'd, and lolling like a lord ? Shall he before me sign, whom t' other day A smalleraft vessel hither did convey;

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
Ar worship'd there, and fear'd for what they know.

And, now we talk of Grecians, cast a view
On what, in schools, their men of morals do;
A rigid stoic his own pupil slew :
A friend against a friend of his own cloth,
Turn'd evidence, and murder'd on his oath.
What room is left for Romans in a town
Where Grecians rule, and clokes control the gown?
Some Diphilus, or some Protogenes,
Look sharply out, our senators to seize :
Engross them wholly, by their native art,
And fear'd no rivals in their bubble's heart:
One drop of poison in my patron's ear,
One slight suggestion of a senseless fear,
Infus'd with cunning, serves to ruin me;
Disgrac'd, and banish'd from the family.
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)
All offices of ours are out of door:

We can as grossly praise; but, to our grief,

No flattery but from Grecians gains belief.

Besides these qualities, we must agree

They mimic better on the stage than we:

Where stow'd with prunes, and rotten figs, he lay? In vain we rise, and to the levees run;

How little is the privilege become

Of being born a citizen of Rome!

My lord himself is up, before, and gone:
The pretor bids his lictors mend their pace,
Lest his colleague outstrip him in the race:
The childish matrons are, long since, awake:
And, for affronts, the tardy visits take.

The Greeks get all by fulsome flatteries;
A most peculiar stroke they have at lies.
They make a wit of their insipid friend;
His blobber-lip and beetle-brows commend;
His long crane-neck and narrow shoulders praise;
You'd think they were describing Hercules.

A creaking voice for a clear treble goes;
Though harsher than a cock that treads and crows.

'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,
For half a brace of bouts, a tribune's pay:
But you, poor sinner, though you love the vice,
And, like the whore, demur upon the price:
And, frighted with the wicked sum, forbear
To lend a hand, and help her from the chair.
Produce a witness of unblemish'd life,

The wife, the whore, the shepherdess, they play, Holy as Numa, or as Numa's wife,

In such a free, and such a graceful way,

That we believe a very woman shown,

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 comedian: laugh, and they
Return it louder than an ass can bray:

Grieve, and they grieve; if you weep silently, There seems a silent echo in their eye:

They cannot mourn like you, but they can cry.
Call for a fire, their winter clothes they take:
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 In conscience must absolve them, when they lye

Or him whọ bid th' unhallow'd flames retire,
And snatch'd the trembling goddess from the fire!
The question is not put, how far extends
His piety, but what he yearly spends:
Quick to the business; how he lives, and eats;
How largely gives; how splendidly be treats:
How many thousand acres feed his sheep,
What are his rents, what servants does he keep?
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 ev'n the gods, that other means deny,

sweat.

We live not on the square with such as these, Such are our betters, who can better please : Who day and night are like a looking glass; Still ready to reflect their patron's face. The panegyric hand, and lifted eye, Prepar'd for some new piece of flattery. Ev'n nastiness, occasions will afford; They praise a belching, or well-pissing lord. Besides, there's nothing sacred, nothing free From bold attempts of their rank letchery. Through the whole family their labours run; The daughter is debauch'd, the wife is won : Nor 'scapes the bridegroom, or the blooming son.

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, sully'd with often turning, Gives a good hint, to say,

"The man's in mourn

Or if the shoe be ript, or patches put,

[ocr errors]

[ing:"

He's wounded! see the plaister on his foot."
Want is the scorn of every 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;

[blocks in formation]

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.

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 them 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. 'Tis true, poor Codrus nothing had to boast, And yet poor Codrus all that nothing lost : Begg'd naked through the streets of wealthy Rome; And found not one to feed, or take him home. But if the palace of Arturius burn,

At Rome 'tis worse; where house-rent by the year, The nobles change their clothes, the matrons

And servants' bellies cost so devilish dear;

And tavern-bills run high for hungry cheer.
To drink or eat in earthen ware we scorn,
Which cheaply country-cupboards does adorn:
And coarse blue hoods on holidays 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

Their habits (undistinguish'd by degree)

[frights.

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-bumkin the same livery 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 favourite page:
Shave his first down, and when he pulis his hair,
The consecrated locks to temples bear:
Pay tributary cracknels, which he sells,
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:
And 'tis the village-mason's daily calling,
'Fo 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,
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,
Cock-loft and garrets soon will take the turn;
Where thy tame pigeons next the tiles were bred,
Which, in their nests unsafe, are timely tled.

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 burus, th' officious nation flies,
Some to condole, and some to bring supplies:
One sends him marble to rebuild, and one
With naked statues of the Parian stone,
The work of Polyclete, that seem to live ;
While others images for altars give,
One books and skreens, 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 dog-hole 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.

'Tis frequent, here, for want of sleep to die; 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; 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, Would wake ev'n drowsy Drusius from his dreams. And yet the wealthy will not brook delay, But sweep above our heads, and make their way; In lofty litters borne, 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 shoal: A rafter breaks his head, or chairman's pole: Stocking'd with loads of fat town-dirt he goes; And some rogue-soldier, with his hob-nail'd shoes, Indents his legs behind in bloody rows.

[ocr errors][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][ocr errors]

See with what smoke our doles we celebrate:

A hundred guests, invited, walk in state:
[wait.
A hundred hungry slaves, with their Dutch kitchens,
Huge pans the wretches on their heads 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:

Their coats, from botching newly bought, are torn.
Unwieldy timber-trees in waggons borne,
Stretch'd at their length, beyond their carriage lie;
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 carcase would remain:
But a wash'd heap, a hotchpotch of the slain.
One vast destruction; not the soul alone,
But bodies, like the soul, visibly 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 irst; and each is handy in his way.
But he, for whom this busy care they take,
Poor ghost! is wandering by the Stygian lake:
Affrighted with the ferryman's grim face;
New to the horrours of that uncouth place;
His passage begs with unregarded prayer :
And wants two farthings 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, and 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 ight: Passing the tedious hours in greater pain Than stern Achilles, when his friend was slain. 'Tis 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 decline: Is cautious to avoid the coach and six, And on the lacquies 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 moonlight 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. [cries,

"Where did you whet your knife to night," he "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 answer, Before my foot salutes you with a kick. [quick,

Say, in what nasty cellar under ground, [found?" Or what church-porch, your rogueship may be Answer, or answer not, 'tis 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 every 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-throat soldiers, are abroad, Those venal souls, who, harden'd in each ill, To save complaints and persecution, kill. Chas'd from their woods and bogs, the padders come To this vast city, as their hative 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 allow Goads for the teams, and plough-shares for the Oh, happy ages of our ancestors, [plough. 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 sliow For my departure; but the Sun is low: The waggoner grows weary of my stay; And whips his horses forwards on their way. Farewell; and when, like me, o'erwhelm'd with 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 afford: Then, to assist your satires, I will come; And add new venom when you write of Rome.

THE SIXTH SATIRE OF

JUVENAL.

THE ARGUMENT.

[care,

THIS satire, of almost double length to any of the rest, is a bitter invective against the fair sex. It is, indeed, a common-place, from whence all the moderns have notoriously stolen their sharpest railleries. In his other satires, the poet has only glanced on some particular women, and generally 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 amongst 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 in

[merged small][ocr errors][ocr errors][merged small]
« PreviousContinue »