The privilege of doles: not yet t' infcribe
Their names in this or t'. other Roman tribe:
That falfe enfranchisement with eafe is found:
Slaves are made citizens, by turning round.
How, replies one, can any be more free?
Here's Dama, once a groom of low degree,
Not worth a farthing, and a sot beside;
So true a rogue, for lying's fake he ly'd;
But, with a turn, a freeman he became;
Now. Marcus Dama is his worship's name.
Good Gods! who would refufe to lend a fum,
If wealthy Marcus furety will become!
Marcus is made a judge, and for a proof
Of certain truth, He faid, it is enough.
A will is to be prov'd; put in your claim;
'Tis clear, if Marcus has fubfcrib'd his name.
This is true liberty, as I believe :
What can we farther from our caps receive,
Than as we please without control to live?
Not more to noble Brutus could belong.
Hold, fays the ftoick, your affumption 's wrong:
I grant, true freedom you have well defin'd:
But, living as you lift, and to your mind,
And loosely tack'd, all must be left behind.
What, fince the prætor did my fetters loose,
And left me freely at my own difpofe,
May I not live without control and awe,
Excepting ftill the letter of the law?
Hear me with patience while thy mind I free
From thofe fond notions of falfe liberty:
'Tis not the prætor's province to bestow
True freedom; nor to teach mankind to know
What to ourselves, or to our friends, we owe.
He could not fet thee free from cares and strife,
Nor give the reins to a lewd vicious life:
As well he for an afs a harp might string,
Which is against the reason of the thing;
For reafon ftill is whispering in your ear,
Where you are fure to fail, th' attempt forbear.
No need of public sanctions this to bind,
Which Nature has implanted in the mind:
Not to pursue the work, to which we 're not defign'd.
Unskill'd in hellebore, if thou should'st try
To mix it, and mistake the quantity,
The rules of physic would against thee cry.
The high-fhoe'd ploughman, fhould he quit the land,
To take the pilot's rudder in his hand,
Artlefs of ftars, and of the moving fand,
The gods would leave him to the waves and wind,
And think all shame was loft in human kind.
Tell me, my friend, from whence hadit thou the fkill,
So nicely to diftinguish good from ill?
Or by the found to judge of gold and brafs,
What piece is tinker's metal, what will pass?
And what thou art to follow, what to fly,
This to condemn, and that to ratify?
When to be bountiful, and when to spare,
But never craving, or opprest with care?
The baits of gifts, and money to defpife,
And look on wealth with undefiring eyes?
When thou canst truly call these virtues thine,
Be wife and free, by heaven's confent, and mine.
But thou, who lately, of the common strain,
Wert one of us, if ftill thou dost retain
The fame ill habits, the fame follies too,
Glofs'd over only with a faint-like show,
Then I resume the freedom which I gave,
Still thou art bound to vice, and still a flave.
Thou canst not wag my finger, or begin
"The least light motion, but it tends to fin.”
How's this? Not wag thy finger, he replies?
No, friend; nor fuming gums, nor facrifice,
Can ever make a madman free, or wife.
"Virtue and vice are never in one foul :
"A man is wholly wife, or wholly is a fool."
A heavy bumkin, taught with daily care,
Can never dance three steps with a becoming air.
PERSIUS.
In fpite of this, my freedom still remains.
Free! what, and fetter'd with so many chains?
Canft thou no other master understand
Than him that freed thee by the prætor's wand?
Should he, who was thy lord, command thee now,
With a harsh voice, and fupercilious brow,
To fervile duties, thou would'ft fear no more;
The gallows and the whip are out of door.
But if thy paffions lord it in thy breaft,
Art thou not still a flave, and still oppreft?
Whether alone, or in thy harlot's lap,
When thou would'st take a lazy morning's nap;
Up, up, fays Avarice; thou fnor'ft again,
Stretcheft thy limbs, and yawn'st, but all in vain;
The tyrant Lucre no denial takes;
At his command th' unwilling fluggard wakes:
What must I do? he cries: What? fays his lord:
Why, rife, make ready, and go ftreight abraod:
With fish, from Euxine feas, thy veffel freight;
Flax, caftor, Coan wines, the precious weight
Of pepper, and Sabæan incenfe, take
With thy own hands, from the tir'd camel's back :
And with post-hafte thy running markets make.
Be fure to turn the penny; lye and fwear;
'Tis wholefome fin: but Jove, thou say'st, will hear:
Swear, fool, or ftarve; for the dilemma 's even :
A tradefman thou! and hope to go to heaven?
Refolv'd for fea, the flaves they baggage pack,
Each faddled with his burden on his back:
Nothing retards thy voyage, now, unless
Thy other lord forbids, Voluptuoufnefs:
And he may afk this civil queftion: Friend,
What doft thou make a ship-board? to what end?
Art thou of Bethlem's noble college free?
Stark, ftaring mad, that thou would'ft tempt the fea?
Cubb'd in a cabbin, on a mattress laid,
On a brown george, with lowfy fwobbers fed,
SATIRE
Dead wine, that ftinks of the borrachio, fup
From a foul jack, or greafy maple-cup?
Say, would't thou bear all this, to raise thy ftore
From fix i'th hundred, to fix hundred more?
Indulge, and to thy genius freely give;
For, not to live at eafe, is not to live;
Death stalks behind thee, and each flying hour
Does fome loose remnant of thy life devour.
Live, while thou liv'ft; for death will make us all
A name, a nothing but an old wife's tale.
Speak; wilt thou Avarice, or Pleasure, chufe
To be thy lord? Take one, and one refufe.
But both, by turns, the rule of thee will have;
And thou, betwixt them both, wilt be a flave.
Nor think, when once thou haft refifted one,
That all thy marks of fervitude are gone :
The struggling greyhound gnaws his leash in vain;
If, when 'tis broken, ftill he drags the chain.
Says Phædra to his man, Believe me, friend,
To this uneafy love I'll put an end:
Shall I run out of all? my friends difgrace,
And be the firft lewd unthrift of my race?
Shall I the neighbours nightly rest invade
At her deaf doors, with fome vile ferenade?
Well haft thou freed thyfelf, his man replies,
Go, thank the Gods, and offer facrifice.
Ah, fays the youth, if we unkindly part,
Will not the poor fond creature break her heart?
Weak foul! and blindly to deftruction led!
She break her heart! fhe 'll fooner break your head.
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