The second satire of the second book of Horace praprhased [sic]: By the author of the first.

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- [halftitle]

- SATIRE II.da.

- SATIRE II.

THE SECOND SATIRE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE PRAPRHASED.

By the Author of the FIRST.

LONDON: Printed by J. Wright for LAWTON GILLIVER at Homer's Head against St. Dunstan's Church in Fleetstreet, M.DCC.XXXV. Price 1 s.

THE SECOND SATIRE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE PARAPHRASED.

SATIRE II.da.

QUAE virtus & quanta, boni, sit vivere parvo,

(Nec meus hic Sermo, sed quem praecepit Ofellus

Rusticus, abnormis sapiens, crassaueq Minerva)

Discite non inter lanceis, mensasque nitenteis,

Cum stupet insanis acies fulgoribus, & cum

Acclinis falsis animus meliora recusat;

Verum hic impransi mecum disquirite. Cur hoc?

Dicam si potero—

— Leporem sectatus, equove Lassus—

Cum labor extuderit fastidia, siccus, inanis,

Sperne cibum vilem.— Foris est Promus, & atrum

Defendens pisces hyemat mare: cum sale panis

Latrantem stomachum bene leniet: unde? putas, aut

Quo partum? Non in caro nidore voluptas

Summa, sed in teipso est ***

Vix tamen eripiam, posito pavone, velis quin

Hoc potius quam gallina, tergere palatum—

Tanquam ad rem attineat quidquam. Num vesceris ista

Quam laudas, pluma?— Laudas insane, trilibrem

Mullum, in singula quem minuas pulmenta necesse est.

Ducit te species video. Quo pertinet ergo

Proceros odisse lupos? quia scilicet illis

Majorem natura modum dedit, his breve pondus.

Porrectum magno magnum spectare catino

Vellem (ait Harpyiis gula digna rapacibus) at vos

Praesentes Austri! coquite horum opsonia: Quamvis

Putet aper, rhombusque recens, mala copia quando

Aegrum sollicitat stomachum, cum rapula plenus

Atque acidas mavult inulus, Necdum omnis abacta

Pauperies epulis regum: nam vilibus ovis

Nigrisque est oleis hodie locus.—

Tutus erat rhombus, tutoque ciconia nido,

Donec vos auctor docuit Pretorius. Ergo

Siquis nunc mergos suaves edixerit assos,

Parebit pravi docilis Romana Juventus.

Sordidus a tenui victus distabit, Ofello

Judice: nam frustra vitium vitaveris istud,

Si te alio pravum detorseris. Avidienus

(Cui Canis ex vero ductum cognomen adhaeret)

Quinquennes oleas est, & sylvestria corna.

Ac nisi mutatum parcit defundere vinum, &

Cujus odorem olei nequeas perferre (licebit

Ille repotia, natales, aliosque dierum

Festus albatus celebret) cornu ipse bilibri

Caulibus instillat; veteris non parcus aceti.

Quali igitur victu sapiens utetur, & horum

Utrum imitabitur? hac urget lupus, hac canis, aiunt.

Mundus erit qui non offendat sordibus, atque

In neutram partem cultus miser. Hic neque servis

Albuti senis exemplo, dum munia didit,

Saevus erit: nec sic ut simplex Naevius, unctam

Convivis praebebit aquam: vitium hoc quoque magnum.

Accipe nunc, victus tenuis quae quantaque secum

Afferat. In primis valeas bene: nam variae res

Ut noceant homini credas, memor illius escae

Quae simplex olim tibi sederat; at simul assis

Miscueris elixa, simul conchylia turdis,

Dulcia se in bilem vertunt, stomachoque tumultum

Lenta feret pituita. Vides, ut pallidus omnis

Caena desurgat dubia? quin corpus onustum

Hesternis vitiis, animum quoque praegravat una,

Atque affigit humo divinae particulam aurae.

Alter ubi dicto citius curata sopori

Membra dedit, vegetus praescripta ad munia surgit.

Hic tamen ad melius poterit transcurrere quondam:

Sive diem festum rediens advexerit annus,

Seu recreare volet tenuatum corpus: ubique

Accedent anni, & tractari mollius aetas

Imbecilla volet. Tibi quidnam accedet ad istam

Quam puer & validus prae-sumis mollitiem, seu

Dura valetudo inciderit, seu tarda senectus?

Rancidum aprum antiqui laudabant, non quia nasus

Illis nullus erat, sed (credo) hac mente, quod hospes

Tardius adveniens, vitiatum commodius, quam

Integrum edax dominus consumeret. Hos utinam inter

Heroas natum tellus me prima tulisset!

Das aliquid Famae? (quae carmine gratior aurem

Occupat humanam.) Grandes rhombi, patinaeque

Grande ferent una cum damno dedecus. Adde

Iratum patruum, vicinos, te tibi iniquum,

Et frustra mortis cupidum, cum deerit egenti

As, laquei pretium.—

— Jure, inquis, Thrasius istis

Jurgatur verbis; ego vectigalia magna

Divitiasque habeo tribus amplas regibus. Ergo

Quod superat, non est melius quo insumere possis?

Cur eget indignus quisquam te divite? quare

Templa ruunt antiqua Deum? cur improbe! carae

Non aliquid patriae tanto emetiris acervo?

Uni nimirum tibi recte semper erunt res?

O magnus posthac inimicis risus! uter-ne

Ad casus dubios fidet sibi certius? hic, qui

Pluribus assuerit mentem corpusque superbum?

An qui contentus parvo, metuensque futuri,

In pace, ut sapiens, aptarit idonea bello?

Quo magis hoc credas, puer hunc ego parvus Ofellum

Integris opibus novi non latius usum,

Quam nunc accisis. Videas, metato in agello,

Non ego, narrantem, temere edi luce profesta

Quidquam praeter olus, fumosae cum pede pernae.

At mihi cum longum post tempus venerit hospes,

Sive operum vacuo, &c.—bene erit, non piscibus urbe petitis,

Sed pullo atque haedo; tum—

— pensilis uva secundas

Et nux ornabit mensas, cum duplice ficu.

Posthac ludus erit Cuppa potare Magistra,

Ac venerata Ceres, ut culmo surgeret alto,

Explicuit vino contractae seria frontis.

Saeviat atque novas moveat Fortuna tumultus!

Quantum hinc imminuit? quanto aut ego parcius, aut vos

O pueri nituistis, ut huc novus Incola venit?

Nam propriae telluris herum natura neque illum

Nec me, aut quemquam statuit; nos expulit ille,

Illum aut Nequities, aut vafri inscitia juris,

Postremo expellit certe vivacior haeres,

Nunc ager Umbreni sub nomine, nuper Ofelli

Dictus, erit nulli proprius, sed cedet in usum

Nunc mihi, nunc alii. Quocirca vivite fortes!

Fortiaque adversis opponite pectora rebus.

SATIRE II.

WHAT, and how great, the Virtue and the Art

To live on little with a chearful heart,

(A Doctrine sage, but truly none of mine)

Lets talk, my friends, but talk before we dine:

Not when a gilt Buffet's reflected pride

'Turns you from sound Philosophy aside;

Not when from Plate to Plate your eyeballs roll,

And the brain dances to the mantling bowl.

Hear Bethel's Sermon, one not vers'd in schools,

But strong in sense, and wise without the rules.

Go work, hunt, exercise! (he thus began)

Then scorn a homely dinner if you can.

Your wine lock'd up, your Butler stroll'd abroad,

Or kept from fish, (the River yet un-thaw'd)

If then plain bread and milk will do the feat,

The pleasure lies in you, not in the meat.

Preach as I please, I doubt our curious men

Will chuse a Pheasant still before a Hen;

Yet Hens of Guinea full as good I hold,

Except you eat the feathers green and gold.

Of Carps and Mullets why prefer the great,

(Tho' cut in pieces e'er my Lord can eat)

Yet for small Turbots such esteem profess?

Because God made these large, the other less.

Oldfield, with more than Harpy throat endu'd,

Cries, "send me, Gods! a whole Hog[†] barbecu'd!"

Oh blast it, South-winds! till a stench exhale

Rank as the ripeness of a Rabbit's tail.

By what Criterion do ye eat, d'ye think,

If this is priz'd for sweetness, that for stink?

When the tir'd Glutton labours thro' a Treat,

He'll find no relish in the sweetest Meat,

He calls for something bitter, something sour,

And the rich feast concludes extremely poor:

Cheap eggs, and herbs, and olives still we see,

Thus much is left of old Simplicity!

The Robin-red-breast till of late had rest,

And children sacred held a Martin's nest,

Till Becca-ficos sold so dev'lish dear,

To one that was, or would have been a Peer.

Let me extoll a Cat on Oysters fed,

I'll have a Party at the Bedford Head,

Or ev'n to crack live Crawfish recommend,

I'd never doubt at Court to make a friend.

'Tis yet in vain, I own, to keep a pother

About one vice, and fall into the other:

Between Excess and Famine lies a mean,

Plain, but not sordid, tho' not splendid, clean.

Avidien or his Wife (no matter which,

For him you'll call a dog, and her a bitch)

Sell their presented Partridges, and Fruits,

And humbly live on rabbits and on roots:

One half-pint bottle serves them both to dine,

And is at once their vinegar and wine.

But on some lucky day (as when they found

A lost Bank-bill, or heard their Son was drown'd)

At such a feast, old vinegar to spare,

Is what two souls so gen'rous cannot bear,

Oyl, tho' it stink, they drop by drop impart,

But sowse the Cabbage with a bounteous heart.

He knows to live, who keeps the middle state,

And neither leans on this side, or on that:

Nor stops, for one bad Cork, his Butler's pay,

Swears, like Albutius, a good Cook away;

Nor lets, like Naevius, ev'ry error pass,

The musty wine, foul cloth, or greasy glass,

Now hear what blessings Temperance can bring:

(Thus said our Friend, and what he said I sing)

First Health: The stomach (cramm'd from ev'rydish,

A Tomb of boil'd, and roast, and flesh, and fish,

When Bile, and wind, and phlegm, and acid jar,

And all the Man is one intestine war)

Remembers oft the School-boys simple fare,

The temp'rate fleeps, and spirits light as air.

How pale, each Worshipful and rev'rend Guest

Rise from a Clergy, or a City, feast!

What life in all that ample Body, say,

What heav'nly Particle inspires the clay?

The Soul subsides, and wickedly inclines

To seem but mortal, ev'n in sound Divines.

On morning wings how active springs the Mind

That leaves the load of yesterday behind?

How easy ev'ry labour it pursues?

How coming to the Poet ev'ry Muse?

Not but we may exceed, some Holy time,

Or tir'd in search of Truth, or search of Rhyme;

Ill Health some just indulgence may engage,

And more, the Sickness of long Life, Old-age;

For fainting Age what cordial drop remains,

If our intemp'rate Youth the Vessel drains?

Our Fathers prais'd rank Ven'son. You suppose

Perhaps, young men! our Fathers had no nose?

Not so: a Buck was then a week's repast,

And 'twas their point, I ween, to make it last:

Better to keep it till their friends could come,

Than eat the sweetest by themselves at home.

Why had not I in those good times my birth,

E're Coxcomb-pyes or Coxcombs were on earth?

Unworthy He, the voice of Fame to hear,

( That sweetest Musick to an honest ear;

For 'faith Lord Fanny! you are in the wrong,

The World's good word is better than a Song)

Who has not learn'd, fresh Sturgeon and Ham pye

Are no rewards for Want, and Infamy!

When Luxury has lick'd up all thy pelf,

Curs'd by thy Neighbours, thy Trustees, thy self,

To friends, to fortune, to mankind a shame,

Think how Posterity will treat thy name;

And buy a Rope, that future times may tell

Thou hast at least bestow'd one penny well.

"Right, cries his Lordship, for a Rogue in need

"To have a Taste, is Insolence indeed:

"In me 'tis noble, suits my birth and state,

"My wealth unwieldy, and my heap too great."

Then, like the Sun, let Bounty spread her ray,

And shine that Superfluity away.

Oh Impudence of wealth! with all thy store,

How dar'st thou let one worthy man be poor?

Shall half the new-built Churches round thee fall?

Make Keys, build Bridges, or repair White-hall:

Or to thy Country let that heap be lent,

As M ** o's was, but not at five per Cent.

Who thinks that Fortune cannot change her mind,

Prepares a dreadful Jest for all mankind!

And who stands safest, tell me? is it he

That spreads and swells in puff'd Prosperity,

Or blest with little, whose preventing care

In Peace provides fit arms against a War?

Thus Bethel spoke, who always speaks his thought,

And always thinks the very thing he ought:

His equal mind I copy what I can,

And as I love, would imitate the Man.

In South-sea days not happier, when surmis'd

The Lord of thousands, than ev'n now Excis'd;

In Forests planted by a Father's hand,

Than in five acres now of rented land.

Content with little, I can piddle here

On Broccoli and mutton, round the year;

But ancient friends, (tho' poor, or out of play)

That touch my Bell, I cannot turn away.

'Tis true, no Turbots dignify my boards,

But gudgeons, flounders, what my Thames affords:

To Hounslow-heath I point, and Bansted-down,

Thence comes your mutton, and these chicks my own:

From yon old wallnut-tree a show'r shall fall;

And grapes, long-lingring on my only wall,

And figs, from standard and Espalier join:

The dev'l is in you if you cannot dine.

Then chearful healths (your Mistress shall have place.

And, what's more rare, a Poet shall say Grace.

Fortune not much of humbling me can boast;

Tho' double-tax'd, how little have I lost?

My Life's amusements have been just the same,

Before, and after Standing Armies came.

My lands are sold, my Father's house is gone;

I'll hire another's: is not that my own,

And yours, my friends? thro' whose free-opening gate

None comes too early, none departs too late;

(For I, who hold sage Homer's rule the best,

Welcome the coming, speed the going guest.)

"Pray heav'n it last! (cries Swift) as you go on;

"I wish to God this house had been your own:

"Pity! to build, without a son or wife:

"Why, you'll enjoy it only all your life."—

Well, if the Use be mine, can it concern one,

Whether the Name belong to Pope or Vernon?

What's Property? dear Swift! you see it alter

From you to me, from me to Peter Walter,

Or, in a mortgage, prove the Lawyer's share,

Or, in a jointure, vanish from the Heir,

Or in pure Equity (the case not clear)

The Chanc'ry takes your rents for twenty year:

At best, it falls to some ungracious son,

That cries, my father's damn'd, and all's my own.

Shades, that to Ba ** n could retreat afford,

Are now the portion of a booby Lord;

And Hemsley, once proud[*] Buckingham's delight,

Slides to a Scriv'ner or a City Knight.

Let lands and houses have what Lords they will,

Let Us be fix'd, and our own Masters still

Notes

†
A West-Indian Term of Gluttony, a Hog roasted whole, stuff'd with Spice, and basted with Madera Wine.
↵

*
Villers Duke of Buckingham.
↵

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Title statement

The second satire of the second book of Horace praprhased [sic]: By the author of the first.

Pope, Alexander, 1688-1744.

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1106006968

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9781106006967

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CW3313116761

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0516601100

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— The second satire of the second book of Horace praprhased [sic]: By the author of the first., Pope, Alexander, 1688-1744.. [2],18p. ; 2⁰. London :: printed by J. Wright for Lawton Gilliver,. 1735 [1734?]. [The author of the first = Alexander Pope.] [Publication date from Foxon.] [Latin and English texts on facing pages.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [Foxon, P964] [Griffith, 410] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT5742.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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