Shall he be plac'd above me at the board,
In purple cloath'd, and lolling like a lord?
Shall he before me fign, whom t' other day
A fmall craft veffel hither did convey;

Where ftow'd with prunes, and rotten figs, he lay?
How little is the privilege become

Of being born a citizen of Rome!
The Greeks get all by fulfom flatteries;
A moft peculiar stroke they have at lies.
They make a wit of their infipid friend;
His blobber-lip and beetle-brows commend;
His long crane-neck and narrow shoulders praise;
You'd think they were defcribing Hercules.
A creaking voice for a clear treble goes;
Though harfher than a cock that treads and crows.
We can as grofsly praife; but, to our grief,
No flattery but from Grecians gains belief.
Befides thefe qualities, we must agree
They mimic better on the stage than we :
The wife, the whore, the fhepherdess, they play,
In fuch a free, and fuch a graceful way,
That we believe a very woman shown,
And fancy fomething underneath the gown.
But not Antiochus, nor Stratocles,
Our ears and ravish'd eyes can only please :
The nation is compos'd of fuch as thefe.
All Greece is one comedian: laugh, and they
Return it louder than an afs can bray :
Grieve, and they grieve; if you weep filently,
There feems a filent echo in their eye :

They cannot mourn like you, but they can cry.

}

}

Call

Call for a fire, their winter cloaths they take:
Begin but you to fhiver, and they shake:

In froft and fnow, if you complain of heat,
They rub th' unsweating brow, and swear they sweat.
We live not on the square with fsuch 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 fome new piece of flattery.
Ev'n naftiness, occafions will afford;
They praife a belching, or well-piffing lord.
Befides, there's nothing facred, 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 'fcapes the bridegroom, or the blooming fon.
If none they find for their lewd purpose fit,
They with the walls and very floors commit.
They fearch the fecrets of the house, and fo
Are 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 ftoick his own pupil flew :

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 cloaks control the gown? Some Diphilus, or fome Protogenes,

Look sharply out, our fenators to seize :

}

Engrofs

Engrofs 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 flight suggestion of a senseless fear,
Infus'd with cunning, ferves to ruin me;
Difgrac'd, and banish'd from the family.
In vain forgotten fervices I boast;

My long dependance in an hour is loft:
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:

In vain we rife, and to the levees run;
My lord himself is. up, before, and gone :
The prætor bids his lictors mend their pace,
Left his colleague outstrip him in the race:
The childish matrons are, long fince, awake:
And, for affronts, the tardy visits take.

'Tis frequent, here, to fee a free-born fon
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 finner, though you love the vice,
And, like the whore, demure upon the price :
And, frighted with the wicked fum, forbear
To lend a hand, and help her from the chair.
Produce a witnefs 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

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 truft, in purple robes to shine;
And, poor, are yet ambitious to be fine.
This is a common vice, though all things here
Are fold, and fold unconfcionably dear.
What will you give that Coffus may but view
Your face, and in the crowd diftinguish you;
May take your incenfe like a gracious God,
And anfwer only with a civil nod?
To please our patrons, in this vicious age,
We make our entrance by the favourite page :
Shave his firft down, and when he pulls his hair,
The confecrated locks to temples bear :

Pay tributary cracknels, which he fells,
And, with our offerings, help to raise his vails.
Who fears in country-towns a houfe's fall,
Or to be caught betwixt a riven wall?
-But we inhabit a weak city here;

Which buttreffes and props but fcarcely bear:
And 'tis the village-mafon's daily calling,
To keep the world's metropolis from falling,
To cleanfe the gutters, and the chinks to clofe;
And, for one night, fecure his lord's repofe.
At Cuma we can fleep 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 fore
(Few hands will rid the lumber of the poor)
Thy own third story smokes, while thou, fupine,
Are drench'd in fumes of undigested wine.
For if the loweft floors already burn,

Cock-loft and garrets foon will take the turn.
Where thy tame pigeons next the tiles were bred,
Which, in their nefts unfafe, are timely fled.
Codrus had but one bed, fo fhort to boot,
That his fhort wife's fhort legs hung dangling out;
His cupboard's head fix earthen pitchers grac'd,
Beneath them was his trufty tankard plac'd.
And, to fupport this noble plate, there lay
A bending Chiron caft from honeft clay;
His few Greek books a rotten cheft contain'd;
Whofe covers much of mouldinefs complain'd:
Where mice and rats devour'd poetic bread;
And with heroic verfe luxurioufly were fed.
'Tis true, poor Codrus nothing had to boast,
And yet poor Codrus all that nothing loft.
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,

~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 aghaft, as if the Gauls were here.
While yet it burns, th' officious nation flies,
Some to condole, and fome to bring fupplies: