Nor, envious at the fight, will I forbear
My plenteous bowl, nor bate my bounteous cheer.
Nor yet unfeal the dregs of wine that stink
Of cafk; nor in a nafty flaggon drink ;
Let others ftuff their guts with homely fare;
For men of different inclinations are;
Though born perhaps beneath one common star.
In minds and manners twins oppos'd we fee
In the fame fign, almost the same degree:
One, frugal, on his birth-day fears to dine;
Does at a penny's coft in herbs repine,
And hardly dares to dip his fingers in the brine.
Prepar'd as priest of his own rites to stand,
He fprinkles pepper with a sparing hand.
His jolly brother, oppofite in fense,
Laughs at his thrift; and, lavish of expence,
Quaffs, crams, and guttles, in his own defence.
For me, I'll ufe my own; and take my fhare;
Yet will not turbots for my
flaves prépare;
Nor be fo nice in tafte myself to know
If what I fwallow be a thrush, or no.
Live on thy annual income; spend thy ftore;
And freely grind, from thy full threfhing-floor;"
Next harvest promises as much, or more.
Thus I would live: but friendship's holy band,
And offices of kindness, hold my hand:
My friend is fhipwreck'd on the Brutian strand,
His riches in th' Ionian main are lost;
And he himself ftands fhivering on the coaft;
Where, deftitute of help, forlorn and bare,
He wearies the deaf Gods with fruitless prayer.
Their images, the relicts of the wreck,
Torn from the naked poop, are tided back
By the wild waves, and, rudely thrown afhore,
Lie impotent; nor can themselves restore.
The veffel ticks, and fhews her open'd fide,
And on her shatter'd mast the mews in triumph ride.
From thy new hope, and from thy growing store,
Now lend affiftance, and relieve the poor.
Come; do a noble act of charity;
A pittance of thy land will fet him free.
Let him not bear the badges of a wreck,
Nor beg with a blue table on his back:
Nor tell me that thy frowning heir will fay,
Tis mine that wealth thou fquander'st thus away;
What is 't to thee, if he neglect thy urn,
Or without fpices lets thy body burn?
If odours to thy ashes he refuse,
Or buys corrupted caffia from the Jews?
All thefe, the wifer Beftius will reply,
Are empty pomp, and dead-mens luxury:
We never knew this vain expence, before
Th' effeminated Grecians brought it o'er:
Now toys and trifles from their Athens come;
And dates and pepper have unfinew'd Rome.
Our fweating hinds their fallads, now, defile,
Infecting homely herbs with fragrant oil.
· But to thy fortune be not thou a slave :
For what haft thou to fear beyond the grave?
And thou who gap'ft for my eftate, draw near;
For I would whisper fomewhat in thy ear.
Hear'st thou the news, my friend? th' exprefs is come
With laurel'd letters from the camp to Rome :
Cæfar falutes the queen and fenate thus:
My arms are on the Rhine victorious.
From mourning altars fweep the dust away:
Ceafe fafting, and proclaim a fat thanksgiving-day.
The goodly emprefs, jollily inclin'd,
Is to the welcome bearer wondrous kind:
And, fetting her good housewifery afide,
Prepares for all the pageantry of pride.
The captive Germans, of gigantic fize,
Are rank'd in order, and are clad in frize:
The fpoils of kings and conquer'd camps we boaft,
Their arms in trophies hang on the triumphal poft.
Now, for fo many glorious actions done
In foreign parts, and mighty battles won :
For peace at home, and for the public wealth,
I mean to crown a bowl to Cæfar's health:
Befides, in gratitude for fuch high matters,
Know I have vow'd two hundred gladiators.
Say, would'st thou hinder me from this expence;
I difinherit thee, if thou dar'ft take offence.
Yet more, a public largess I defign
Of oil and pies, to make the people dine :
Control me not, for fear I change my will.
And yet methinks I hear thee grumbling still,
You give as if you were the Perfian king :
Your land does not fo large revenues bring.
Well; on my terms thou wilt not be my heir?
If thou car'ft little, lefs fhall be my care:
Were none of all my father's fifters left:
Nay, were I of my mother's kin bereft :
None by an uncle's or a grandame's fide,
Yet I could fome adopted heir provide.
I need but take my journey half a day
From haughty Rome, and at Aricia stay,
Where Fortune throws poor Manius in my way.
Him will I choofe: What! him of humble birth,
Obscure, a foundling, and a son of earth ?
Obfcure? Why pr'ythee what am I? I know
My father, grandfire, and great-grandfire too.
If farther I derive my pedigree,
I can but guess beyond the fourth degree.
The rest of my forgotten ancestors
Were fons of earth, like him, or fons of whores.
Yet, why would'ft thou, old covetous wretch, afpire
To be my heir, who might'ft have been my fire?
In Nature's race, fhould't thou demand of me
My torch, when I in course run after thee ?
Think I approach thee, like the God of gain,
With wings on head and heels, as poets feign:
Thy moderate fortune from my gift receive;
Now fairly take it, or as fairly leave.
But take it as it is, and afk no more.
What, when thou haft embezzled all thy ftore ?
Where 's all thy father left? 'Tis truc, I grant,
Some I have mortgag`d, to fupply my want:
The legacies of Tadius too are flown;
All spent, and on the self-fame errand gone.
How little then to my poor fhare will fall!
Little indeed; but yet that little's all.
Nor tell me, in a dying father's tone,
Be careful ftill of the main chance, my fon;
Put out thy principal in trusty hands:
Live on the ufe; and never dip thy lands:
But yet what's left for me? What's left, my friend!
Ask that again, and all the rest I spend.
Is not my fortunes at my own command?
Pour oil, and pour it with a plenteous hand,
Upon my fallads, boy: fhall I be fed
With fodden nettles, and a fing'd fow's head?
'Tis holiday; provide me better cheer;
'Tis holiday, and fhall be round the year.
Shall I my houshold gods and genius cheat,
To make him rich, who grudges me my meat?
That he may loll at eafe; and, pamper'd high,
When I am laid, may feed on giblet-pie?
And, when his throbbing luft extends the vein,
Have wherewithal his whores to entertain ?
Shall I in homespun cloth be clad, that he
His paunch in triumph may before him fee?
Go, mifer, go; for lucre fell thy foul;
Truck wares for wares, and trudge from pole to pole :
That men may fay, when thou art dead and gone,
See what a vaft eftate he left his fon!
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