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Fat Lateranus does his revels keep

Of doing ill, by virtue of that race;
Where his forefathers' peaceful ashes sleep; As if what we esteem in cobblers base,
Driving himself a chariot down the hill,

Would the high family of Brutus grace.
And (though a consul) links himself the wheel: Shameful are these examples, yet we find
To do him justice, 'tis indeed by night,

(To Rome's disgrace) far worse than these behind; Yet the Moon sees, and every smaller light Poor Damasippus, whom we once have known Pries as a witness of the shameful sight.

Fluttering with coach and six about the town, Nay when his year of honour 's ended, soon Is forc'd to make the stage his last retreat, He 'll leave that nicety, and mount at noon; And pawns his voice, the all he has, for meat: Nor blush should he some grave acquaintance meet, For now he must (since his estate is lost) But, proud of being known, will jerk and greet: Or represent, or be himself, a ghost: And when his fellow-beasts are weary grown,

And Lentulus acts hanging with such art, He'll play the groom, give oats, and rub them down. Were I a judge, he should not feign the part. If, after Numa's ceremonial way,

Nor would I their vile insolence acquit, He at Jove's altar would a victim slay,

Who can with patience, nay diversion, sit, To no clean goddess he directs his prayers, Applauding my lord's buffoonry for wit, But by Hippona most devoutly swears,

And clapping farces acted by the court, Or some rank deity, whose filthy face

While the peers cuff, to make the rabble sport: We suitably o'er stinking stables place.

Or hirelings, at a prize, their fortunes try;
When he has run his length, and does begin Certain to fall unpity'd if they die;
To steer his course directly for the inn,

Since none can have the favourable thought
(Where they have watch'd, expecting him all night) That to obey a tyrant's will they fought,
A greasy Syrian, ere he can alight,

But that their lives they willingly expose,
Presents him essence, while his courteous host Bought by the pretors to adorn their shows.
(Well knowing nothing by good-breeding 's lost) Yet say, the stage and lists were both in sight,
Tags every sentence with some fawning word, And you must either choose to act, or fight;
Such as “My king, my prince," at least “My lord;" Death never sure bears such a ghastly shape,
And a tight maid, ere he for wine can ask,

That a rank coward basely would escape
Guesses his meaning, and unoils the flask. By playing a foul harlot's jealous tool,
Some, friends to vice, industriously defend Or a feign'd Andrew to a real fool.
These innocent diversions, and pretend

Yet a peer actor is no monstrous thing,
That I the tricks of youth too roughly blame,

Since Rome has own'd a fiddler for a king :
Alleging, that when young we did the same. After such pranks, the world itself at best
I grant we did, yet when that age was past, May be imagin'd nothing but a jest.
The frolic humour did no longer last;

Go to the lists where feats of arms are shown,
We did not cherish and indulge the crime; There you 'll find Gracchus (from patrician) grown
What 's foul in acting, should be left in time. A fencer and the scandal of the town.
'Tis true, some faults, of course, with childhood end, Nor will he the Mirmillo's weapons bear,
We therefore wink at wags when they offend,

The modest helmet he disdains to wear;
And spare the boy, in hopes the man may mend. As Retiarius he attacks bis foe;
But Lateranus, (now his vigorous age

First waves his trident ready for the throw,
Should prompt him for his country to engage, Next casts his net, but neither level'd right,
The circuit of our empire to extend,

He stares about expos'd to public sight, And all our lives in Cæsar's to defend)

Then places all his safety in his flight. Mature in riots, places his delight

Room for the noble gladiator! See All day in plying bumpers, and at night

His coat and hatband show his quality. Reels to the bawds, over whose doors are set

Thus when at last the brave Mirmillo knew Pictures and bills, with “ Here are whores to let.”

'Twas Gracchus was the wretch he did pursue, Should any desperate unexpected fate

To conquer such a coward griev'd him more, Summon all heads and hands to guard the state, Than if he many glorious wounds had bore. Cæsar, send quickly to secure the port;

Had we the freedom to express our mind, “ But where's the general? where does he resort?” There 's not a wretch so much to vice inclin'd, Send to the sutler's; there y' are sure to find But will own, Seneca did far excel The bully match'd with rascals of his kind, His pupil, by whose tyranny he fell: Quacks, coffin-makers, fugitives, and sailors; (lors; To expiate whose complicated guilt, Rooks, common soldiers, hangmen, thieves, and tai- With some proportion to the blood he spilt, With Cybele's priests, who, weary'd with processions, Rome should more serpents, apes, and sacks provide, Drink there, and sleep with knaves of all professions: Than one for the compendious parricide. A friendly gang ! each equal to the best;

'Tis true, Orestes a like crime did act; And all, who can, have liberty to jest:

Yet weigh the cause, there's difference in the fact: One flaggon walks the round, that none shonld think He slew his mother at the gods' command, They either change, or stint him of his drink: They bid him strike, and did direct his hand; And, lest exceptions may for place be found, To punish falsehood, and appease the ghost Their stools are all alike, their table round. Of his poor father treacherously lost,

What think you, Ponticus, yourself might do, Just in the minute when the flowing bowl
Should any slave so lewd belong to you?

With a full tide enlarg'd his cheerful soul.
No doubt, you 'd send the rogue in fetters bound Yet kill'd he not his sister, or his wife,
To work in Bridewell, or to plough your ground: Nor aim'd at any near relation's life;
But nobles, you, who trace your birth from Troy, Orestes, in the heat of all his rage,
Think, you the great prerogative enjoy

Ne'er play'd or sung upon a public stage;

Never on verse did his wild thoughts employ, Nicely he gain'd, and well possest the throne, To paint the horrid scene of burning Troy,

Not for his father's merit, but his own, Like Nero, who, to raise his fancy higher,

And reign’d, himself a family alone. And finish the great work, set Rome on fire.

When Tarquin, his proud successor, was quell'd, Such crimes make treason just, and might compel And with him Lust and Tyranny expellid, Virginius, Vindex, Galba, to rebel ;

The consul's sons (who, for their country's good, For what could Nero's self have acted worse And to enhance the honour of their blood, To aggravate the wretched nation's curse?

Should have asserted what their father won, These are the blest endowments, studies, arts, And, to confirm that liberty, have done Which exercise our mighty emperor's parts ; Actions which Cocles might have wish'd his own; Snch frolics with his roving genius suit,

What might to Mutius wonderful appear, On foreign theatres to prostitute

And what bold Clelia might with envy hear) His voice and honour, for the poor renown

Open'd the gates, endeavouring to restore Of putting all the Grecian actors down,

Their banish'd king, and arbitrary power: And winning at a wake their parsley crown. Whilst a poor slave, with scarce a name, betray'd Let this triumphal chaplet find some place The horrid ills these well-born rogues had laid; Among the other trophies of thy race:

Who therefore for their treason justly bore By the Domitii's statues shall be laid

The rods and ax, ne'er us'd in Rome before. The habit and the mask in which you play'd

If you have strength Achilles' arms to bear, Antigone's, or bold Thyestes' part,

And courage to sustain a ten years war; (While your wild nature little wanted art) Though foul Thersites got thee, thou shalt be And on the marble pillar shall be hung

More lov'd by all, and more esteem'd by me, The lute to which the royal madman sung. Than if by chance you from some hero came, Who, Catiline, can boast a nobler line

In nothing like your father but his name. Than thy lewd friend Cethegus's, and thine? Boast then your blood, and your long lineage Yet you took arms, and did by night conspire

stretch To set your houses and our gods on fire:

As high as Rome, and its great founders reach; (An enterprise which might indeed become

You 'll find, in these hereditary tales, Our enemies, the Gauls, not sons of Rome, Your ancestors the scum of broken jails; To recompense whose barbarous intent

And Romulus, your honour's ancient source, Pitch'd shirts would be too mild a punishment) But a poor shepherd's boy, or something worse. Brit Tully, our wise consul, watch'd the blow, With care discover'd, and disarm'd the foe; Tully, the humble mushroom, scarcely known, The lowly native of a country town,

HORACE. BOOK III. ODE VII. (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 share to every ward,

Dear Molly, why so oft in tears? And by the peaceful robe got more renown

Why all these jealousies and fears, Within our walls, than young Octavius won

For thy bold Son of Thunder? By victories at Actium, or the plain

Have patience till we've conquer'd France, Of Thessaly, discolour'd by the slain:

Thy closet shall be stor'd with Nantz;
Him therefore Rome in gratitude decreed

Ye ladies like such plunder.
The Father of his Country, which he freed. Before Toulon thy yoke-mate lies,
Marius, (another consul we admire)

Where all the live-long night he sighs
In the same village born, first plough'd for hire;

For thee in lousy cabin : His next advance was to the soldier's trade,

And though the captain's Chloe cries,
Where, if he did not nimbly ply the spade, “ 'Tis I, dear Bully, pr'ythee rise”-
His surly officer ne'er fail'd to crack

He will not let the drab in.
His knotty cndgel on his tougher back :
Yet he alone secur'd the tottering state,

But she, the cunning'st jade alive,
Withstood the Cimbrians, and redeem'd our fate: Says, 'tis tbe ready way to thrive,
So when the eagles to their quarry flew,

By sharing female bounties : (Who never such a goodly banquet knew) And, if he 'll be but kind one night, Only a second laurel did adorn

She vows he shall be dubb'd a knight,
His colleague Catulus, though nobly born;

When she is made a countess.
He shar'd the pride of the triumphal bay, Then tells of smooth young pages whipp'da
But Marius won the glory of the day.

Cashier'd, and of their liveries stripp'd ;
From a mean stock the pious Decii came,

Who late to peers belonging,
Small their estates, and vulgar was their name;
Yet such their virtues, that their loss alone

Are nightly now compellid to trudge

With links, because they would not drudge
For Rome and all our legions did atone;

To save their ladies' longing
Their country's doom they by their own retriev'd,
Themselves more worth than all the host they But Val, the eunuch, cannot be

A colder cavalier than be,
The last good king whom willing Rome obey'd In all such love-adventures:
Was the poor offspring of a captive maid; Then pray do you, dear Molly, take
Yet he those robes of empire justly bore,

Some Christian care, and do not break
Which Romulus, our sacred founder, wore:

Your conjugal indeatures.



Bellair ! (who does not Bellair know?

Nor does your virtne disappear The wit. the beauty, and the beau)

With the small circle of one short-liv'd year: Gives ont, he loves you dearly :

Others, like comets, visit and away; And many a nymph attack'd with sighs,

Your lustre, great as theirs, finds no decay, And soft impertinence and noise,

But with the constant Sun makes an eternal day. Full oft has beat a parley.

We barbarously call those blest, But, pretty turtle, when the blade

Who are of largest tenements possest, Shall come with amorous serenade,

Whilst swelling coffers break their owner's reste Soon from the window rate him:

More truly happy those, who can But if reproof will not prevail,

Govern that little empire, Man; And he perchance attempt to scale,

Bridle their passions, and direct their will
Discharge the jordan at him.

Through all the glittering paths of charming ill;
Who spend their treasure freely as 'twas given
By the large bounty of indulgent Heaven;
Who, in a fixt unalterable state,

Smile at the doubtful tide of Fate,

And scorn alike her friendship and her hate;

Who poison less than falsehood fear, Verses immortal as my bays I sing,

Loth to purchase life so dear; When suited to my trembling string :

But kindly for their friend embrace cold Death, When by strange art both voice and lyre agree And seal their country's love with their departing, To make one pleasing harmony.

breath. All poets are by their blind captain led,

(For pone e'er had the sacrilegious pride
To tear the well-plac'd laurel from his aged head.)
Yet Pindar's rolling dithyrambic tide

Hath still this praise, that none presume to fly
Like him, but fag too low, or soar too high.
Still does Stesichorus's tongue

Victrix causa Diis placuit, sed victa Catoni.
Sing sweeter than the bird which on it hung.
Anacreon ne'er too old can grow,

The gods and Cato did in this divide,
Love from every verse does flow;

They choose the conquering, he the conquer'd side.
Still Sappho's strings do seem to move,
Instructing all her sex to love.

Golden rings of flowing hair

More than Helen did ensnare;
Others a prince's grandeur did admire,

And, wondering, melted to desire.
Not only skilful Teucer knew

Mun, rarely credit Common Fame,
To direct arrows from the bended yew. Unheeded let her praise or blame,
Troy more than once did fall,

As whimsies guide the gossip tattles Though hireling gods rebuilt its nodding wall. Of wits, of beauties, and of battles ; Was Sthenelus the only valiant he,

To-day the warrior's brow she crowns, A subject fit for lasting poetry?

For naval spoils, and taken towns ; Was Hector that prodigious man alone,

To-morrow all her spite she rallies, Who, to save others lives, expos'd his own? And votes the victor to the gallies. Was only he so brave to dare his fate,

Nor in her visits can she spare And be the pillar of a tottering state?

The reputation of the fair. No; others bury'd in oblivion lie,

For instance:-Chloe's bloom did boast As silent as their grave,

A while to be the reigning toast ; Because no charitable poet gave

Lean hectic sparks abandon'd bohea, Their well-deserved immortality.

And in beer-glasses pledg'd to Chloe :

What fops of figure did she bring Virtue with sloth, and cowards with the brave, To the front boxes and the ring? Are leveld in th' impartial grave,

While nymphs of quality look sullen,
If they no poet have.

As breeding wives, or moulting pullen
But I will lay my music by,

Blest charmer she, till prying Pame
And bid the mournful strings in silence lie; Incog. to miss's toilet eame;
Unless my songs begin and end with you,

Where in the gallipots she spy'd
To whom my strings, to whom my songs, are due. Lilies and roses, that defy'd
No pride does with your rising honours grow, The frost of Age, with certain pickles
You meekly look on suppliant crowds below. They call-cosmetics for the freckles :

Should Fortune change your happy state, Away she flew with what she wanted,

You could admire, yet envy not, the great. And told at court that Chloe painted. Your equal hand holds an unbias'd scale,

“ Then who 'd on common Fame rely, Where no rich vices, gilded baits, prevail: Wbose chief employment 's to decry? You with a generous honesty despise

A cogging, fickle, jilting female, What all the meaner world so dearly prize: As ever ply'd at six in the Mall;


The father of all fibs begat her

If her son's death movd tender Thetis mind On some old newsman's fusty daughter."

To swell with tears the waves, with sighs the wind; O captain ! Taisez-vous—'twere hard

If mighty gods can mortals' sorrow know, Her novels ne'er should bave regard :

And be the humble partners of our woe; One proof I 'll in her favour give,

Now loose your tresses, pensive Elegy, Which none but you will disbelieve.

(Too well your office and your name agree) When Phoebus sent her to recite

Tibullus, once the joy and pride of Fame, The praises of the most polite,

Lies now rich fuel on the trembling flame. Whose scenes have been, in every age,

Sad Cupid now despairs of conquering hearts, The glories of the British stage,

Throws by his empty quiver, breaks his darts ; Then she, to rigid truth confin'd,

Eases his useless bows from idle strings, Your name with lofty Shakspeare join'd; Nor Aies, but humbly creeps with flagging wings. And, speaking as the god directed,

He wants, of which he robb'd fond lovers, rest, The praise she gave was unsuspected.

And wounds with furious hands his pensive breast.
Those graceful curls which wantonly did flow,
The whiter rivals of the falling snow,
Forget their beauty, and in discord lie,

Drunk with the fountain from his melting eye.

Not more Æneas' loss the boy did move;

Like passions for them both, prove equal love. « WHENE'ER I wive,” young Strephon cry'd, Tibullus' death grieves the fair goddess more, “ Ye powers, that o'er the noose preside!

More swells her eyes, than when the savage boar Wit, beauty, wealth, and humour, give,

Her beautiful, her lov'd Adonis tore. Or let me still a rover live:

Poets' large souls Heaven's noblest stamps do But if all these no nymph can share,

bear; And I'm predestin'd to the snare,

(Poets, the watchful angels darling care) Let mine, ye powers! be doubly fair.”

Yet Death, (blind archer) that no difference knows Thus pray'd the swain in heat of blood,

Without respect his roving arrows throws. Whilst Cupid at his elbow stood;

Nor Phæbus, nor the Muses' queen, could give And twitching him, said, “ Youth, be wise, Their son, their own prerogative, to live. Ask not impossibilities :

Orpheus, the heir of both his parents' skill, A faultless make, a manag'd wit,

Tam'd wondering beasts, and Death's more cruel will Humour and fortane never met:

Linus' sad strings on the dumb lute do lie, But if a beauty you 'd obtain,

In silence forc'd to let their master die. Court some bright Phyllis of the brain;

Homer (the spring to whom we poets owe The dear idea long enjoy,

Our little all does in sweet numbers flow) Clean is the bliss, and will not cloy.

Remains immortal only in his fame, But trust me, youth, for I'm sincere,

His works alone survive the envious flame. And know the ladies to a hair,

In vain to gods (if gods there are) we pray, Howe'er small poets whine upon it,

And needless victims prodigally pay, In madrigal, and song, and sonnet,

Worship their sleeping deities : yet Death Their beauty 's but a Spell, to bring

Scorns votaries, and stops the praying breath, A lover to th' enchanted ring;

To hallow'd shrines intruding Fate will come, Ere the sack-posset is digested,

And drag you from the altar to the tomb. Or half of Hymen's taper wasted,

Go, frantic poet, with delusions fed, The winning air, the wanton trip,

Think laurels guard your consecrated head, The radiant eye, the velvet lip,

Now the sweet master of your art is dead. From which you fragrant kisses stole,

What can we hope? since that a narrow span And seem to suck her springing soul

Can measure the remains of thee, great man! These, and the rest, you doated on,

The bold rash flame that durst approach so nigh, Are nauseous or insipid grown;

And see Tibullus, and not trembling die, The Spell dissolves, the cloud is gone,

Durst seize on temples, and their gods defy.
And Sacharissa turns to Joan."

Fair Venus (fair er'n in such sorrows) stands,
Closing her heavy eyes with trembling bands :
Anon, in vain, officiously she tries
To quench the flame with rivers from her eyes.

His mother weeping does his eyelids close,

And on his urn, tears, her last gift, bestows.
His sister too, with hair dishevell’d, bears

Part of her mother's nature, and her tears.

With those, two fair, two mournful rivals come,
And add a greater triumph to his tomb:
Both hug his urn, both his lov'd ashes kiss,

And both contend which reap'd the greater bliss. If Memnon's fate, bewail'd with constant dew, Thus Delia spoke, (when sighs no more could last) Does, with the day, his mother's grief renew; Renewing by remembrance pleasures past;.

“When youth with vigour did for joy combine, " This poem, with a few alterations, is to be I was Tibullus' life, Tibullus mine: found in Fenton, (see vol. x.) ander the title of I entertain'd bis hot, his first desire, the Platonic Spell. N.

And kept alive, till age, his active fire."




To her then Nemesis, (when groans gave leave) “ As I alone was lov'd, alone I'll grieve:

EVENING STAR. Spare your vain tears, Tibullus' heart was mine,

ENGLISHED FROM A GREEK IDYLLIUM. About my neck his dying arms did twine; I snatch'd bis soul, which true to me did prove:

Bright Star! by Venus fix'd above, Age ended yours, Death only stopp'd my love.” To rule the happy realms of Love; If any poor remains survive the Aames,

Who in the dewy rear of day, Except thin shadows, and more empty names; Advancing thy distinguish'd ray, Free in Elysium shall Tibullus rove,

Dost other lights as far outshine Nor fear a second death should cross his love. As Cynthia's silver glories thine; There shall Catullus, crown'd with bays, impart Known by superior beauty there, To his far dearer friend his open heart:

As much as Pastorella here. There Gallus (if Fame's hundred tongues all lie) Exert, bright Star, thy friendly light, Shall, free from censure, no more rashly die. And guide me through the dusky night; Such shall our poet's blest companions be,

Defrauded of her beams, the Moon And in their deaths, as in their lives, agree. Shines dim, and will be vanish'd soon. But thou, rich Um, obey my strict commands, I would not rob the shepherd's fold; Guard thy great charge from sacrilegious hands. I seek no miser's hoarded gold; Thou, Earth, Tibullus' ashes gently use,

To find a nymph, I 'm forc'd to stray, And be as soft and easy as his Muse.

Who lately stole my heart away.

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