Next casts his net, but neither level'd right,
He ftares about expos'd to public fight,
Then places all his fafety in his flight.
Room for the noble gladiator! See
His coat and hatband fhew his quality.
Thus when at last the brave Mirmillo knew
'Twas Gracchus was the wretch he did pursue,
To conquer fuch a coward griev'd him more,
Than if he many glorious wounds had bore.
Had we the freedom to express our mind,
There's not a wretch fo much to vice inclin'd,
But will own, Seneca did far excel
His pupil, by whofe tyranny he fell :
To expiate whofe complicated guilt,
With fome proportion to the blood he spilt,
Rome fhould more ferpents, apes, and facks provide, Than one for the compendious parricide.
'Tis true, Oreftes a like crime did act;
Yet weigh the cause, there 's difference in the fact:
He flew his mother at the gods' command,
They bid him strike, and did direct his hand;
To punish falfhood, and appease the ghost
Of his poor father treacherously lost,
Juft in the minute when the flowing bowl
With a full tide enlarg'd his chearful soul.
Yet kill'd he not his fifter, or his wife,
Nor aim'd at any near relation's life;
Oreftes, in the heat of all his rage,
Ne'er play'd or fung upon a public stage;
Never on verfe did his wild thoughts employ,
To paint the horrid scene of burning Troy,
Like Nero, who, to raise his fancy higher,
And finish the great work, fet Rome on fire.
Such crimes make treafon juft, and might compel
Virginius, Vindex, Galba, to rebel;
For what could Nero's felf have acted worse
To aggravate the wretched nation's curfe?
These are the bleft endowments, ftudies, arts,
Which exercife our mighty Emperor's parts ;
Such frolicks with his roving genius fuit,
On foreign theatres to prostitute
His voice and honour, for the poor renown
Of putting all the Grecian actors down,
And winning at a wake their parfley-crown,
Let this triumphal chaplet find fome place
Among the other trophies of thy race;
By the Domitii's ftatues fhall be laid
The habit and the mask in which you play'd
Antigone's, or bold Thyeftes' part,
(While your wild nature little wanted art)
And on the marble pillar fhall be hung
The lute to which the Royal Madman fung.
Who, Catiline, can boast a nobler line
Than thy lewd friend Cethegus's, and thine?
Yet you took arms, and did by night confpire
To fet your houfes and our gods on fire
(An enterprize which might indeed become
Our enemies, the Gauls, not fons of Rome,
To recompenfe whose barbarous intent
Pitch'd shirts would be too mild a punishment) :
But Tully, our wife conful, watch'd the blow,
With care difcover'd, and difarm'd the foe;
Tully, the humble mushroom, scarcely known,
The lowly native of a country town
(Who till of late could never reach the height
Of being honour'd as a Roman knight),
Throughout the trembling city plac'd a guard,
Dealing an equal fhare to every ward,
And by the peaceful robe got more renown
Within our walls, than young Octavius won
By victories at Actium, or the plain
Of Theffaly, discolour'd by the slain :
Him therefore Rome in gratitude decreed
The Father of his Country, which he freed.
Marius (another conful we admire)
In the fame village born, first plow'd for hire;
His next advance was to the foldier's trade,
Where, if he did not nimbly ply the spade,
His furly officer ne'er fail'd to crack
His knotty cudgel on his tougher back :
Yet he alone fecur'd the tottering state,
Withstood the Cimbrians, and redeem'd our fate :
So when the eagles to their quarry flew
(Who never such a goodly banquet knew)
Only a fecond laurel did adorn
His colleague Catulus, though nobly born;
He fhar'd the pride of the triumphal bay,
But Marius won the glory of the day.
From a mean ftock the pious Decii came,
Small their eftates, and vulgar was their name;
Yet fuch their viriues, that their lofs alone
For Rome and all our legions did atone;
Their country's doom they by their own retriev'd,
Themfelves more worth than all the host they fav'd.
The last good king whom willing Rome obey'd,
Was the poor offspring of a captive maid;
Yet he thofe robes of empire juftly bore,
Which Romulus, our facred founder, wore:
Nicely he gain'd, and well poffeft the throne,
Not for his father's merit, but his own,
And reign'd, himself a family alone.
When Tarquin, his proud fucceffor, was quell'd,
And with him Luft and Tyranny expell'd,
The confuls fons (who, for their country's good,
And to inhance the honour of their blood,
Should have afferted what their father won,
And, to confirm that liberty, have done
Actions which Cocles might have wish'd his own;
What might to Mutius wonderful appear,
And what bold Clelia might with envy hear)
Open'd the gates, endeavouring to restore
Their banish'd king, and arbitrary power :
Whilst a poor flave, with scarce a name, betray'd
The horrid ills thefe well-born rogues had laid;
Who therefore for their treason justly bore
The rods and ax, ne'er us'd in Rome before.
If you have strength Achilles' arms to bear,
And courage to fuftain a ten years war;
Though foul Therfites got thee, thou shalt be
More lov'd by all, and more esteem'd by me,
Than if by chance you from fome hero came,
In nothing like your father but his name.
Boaft then your blood, and your long lineage ftretch
As high as Rome, and its great founders reach;
You'll find, in thefe hereditary tales,
Your ancestors the fcum of broken jails;
And Romulus, your honour's ancient fource,
But a poor fhepherd's boy, or fomething worse.
HORACE. BOOK III. ODE VII.
EAR Molly, why fo oft in tears?
Why all these jealousies and fears.
For thy bold Son of Thunder?
Have patience till we've conquer'd France,
Thy closet fhall be ftor'd with Nantz;
Ye ladies like fuch plunder.
Before Toulon thy yoke-mate lies,
Where all the live-long night he fighs
For thee in loufy cabin:
And though the Captain's Chloe cries,
" 'Tis I, dear Bully, pr'ythee rife”-
He will not let the drab in.
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