Aping the foreigners in every dress;
Which, bought at greater cost, becomes him less.
Meantime they wisely leave their native land,
From Sycion, Samos and from Alaband,
And Amydon, to Rome they swarm in shoals:
So sweet and easy is the gain from fools.
Poor refugees at first, they purchase here:
And, soon as denizen'd, they domineer.
Grow to the great, a flattering servile rout:
Work themselves inward, and their patrons out.
Quick-witted, brazen fac'd, with fluent tongues,
Patient of labours, and dissembling wrongs.
Riddle me this, and guess him if you can,
Who bears a nation in a single man?
A cook, a conjurer, a rhetorician,
A painter, pedant, a geometrician,
A dancer on the ropes, and a physician.
All things the hungry Greek exactly knows:
And bid him go to Heaven, to Heaven he goes.
In short, no Scythian, Moor, or Thracian born,
But in that town which arms and arts adorn,
Shall he be plac'd above me at the board,
In purple cloth'd, and lolling like a lord?
Shall he before ne sign, whom t' other day
A smallcraft vessel hither did convey;
Where stow'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 fulsome flatteries;
A most peculiar stroke they have at lies.
They make a wit of their insipid friend;
His blobber-lip and beetle-brows commend ;
His long crane-neck and narrow shoulders praise;
You'd think they were describing Hercules.
A creaking voice for a clear treble goes;
Though harsher than a cock that treads and crows.
We can as grossly praise; but, to our grief,
No flattery but from Grecians gains belief.
Besides these qualities, we must agree
They mimic better on the stage than we:
If none they find for their lewd purpose fit,
They with the walls and very floors commit.
They search the secrets of the house, and so
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 stoic his own pupil slew:
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 clokes control the gown?
Some Diphilus, or some Protogenes,
Look sharply out, our senators to seize:
Engross 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 slight suggestion of a senseless fear,
Infus'd with cunning, serves to ruin me;
Disgrac'd, and banish'd from the family.
In vain forgotten services I boast;
My long dependance in an hour is lost:
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 rise, and to the levees run;
My lord himself is up, before, and gone:
The pretor bids bis lictors mend their pace,
Lest his colleague outstrip him in the race:
The childish matrons are, long since, awake:
And, for affronts, the tardy visits take.
'Tis frequent, here, to see a free-born son
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 sinner, though you love the vice,
And, like the whore, demur upon the price:
And, frighted with the wicked sum, forbear
To lend a hand, and help her from the chair.
Produce a witness of unblemish'd life,
The wife, the whore, the shepherdess, they play, Holy as Numa, or as Numa's wife,
In such a free, and such a graceful way,
That we believe a very woman shown,
And fancy something underneath the gown.
But not Antiochus, nor Stratocles,
Our ears and ravish'd eyes can only please:
The nation is compos'd of such as these.
All Greece is one comedian: laugh, and they
Return it louder than an ass can bray :
Grieve, and they grieve; if you weep silently,
There seems a silent echo in their eye:
They cannot mourn like you, but they can cry.
Call for a fire, their winter clothes they take:
Begin but you to shiver, and they shake:
In frost and snow, if you complain of heat,
They rub th' unsweating brow, and swear they
We live not on the square with such 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 some new piece of flattery.
Ev'n nastiness, occasions will afford;
They praise a belching, or well-pissing lord.
Besides, there's nothing sacred, 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 'scapes the bridegroom, or the blooming son.
Or him who bid th' unhallow'd flames retire,
And snatch'd the trembling goddess from the fire!
The question is not put, how far extends
His piety, but what he yearly spends :
Quick to the business; how he lives, and eats;
How largely gives; how splendidly be treats:
How many thousand acres feed his sheep,
What are his rents, what servants does he keep?
Th' account is soon cast up; the judges rate
Our credit in the court by our estate.
Swear by our gods, or those the Greeks adore,
Thou art as sure forsworn, as thou art poor :
The poor must gain their bread by perjury;
And ev'n the gods, that, other means deny,
In conscience must absolve them, when they lye.
Add, that the rich have still a gibe in store;
And will be monstrous witty on the poor:
For the torn surtout and the tatter'd vest,
The wretch and all his wardrobe are a jest:
The greasy gown, sully'd with often turning,
Gives a good hint, to say, "The man's in mourn-
Or if the shoe be ript, or patches put,
[ing:"
"He's wounded! see the plaister on his foot."
Want is the scorn of every wealthy fool;
And wit in rags is turn'd to ridicule.
"Pack hence, and from the cover'd benches rise,"
(The master of the ceremonies cries)
"This is no place for you, whose small estate
Is not the value of the settled rate e;
The sons of happy punks, the pandar's heir,
Are privileged to sit in triumph there,
To clap the first, and rule the theatre.
Up to the galleries, for shame, retreat; [seat."
For, by the Roscian law, the poor can claim no
Who ever brought to his rich daughter's bed
The man, that poll'd but twelve-ponce for his head?
Who ever nam'd a poor man for his heir,
Or call'd him to assist the judging chair?
The poor were wise, who, by the rich opprest,
Withdrew, and sought a sacred place of rest.
Once they did well, to free themselves from scorn,
But had done better never to return.
Rarely they rise by virtue's aid, who lie
Plung'd in the depth of helpless poverty.
At Rome 'tis worse; where house-rent by the year,
And servants' bellies cost so devilish dear;
And tavern-bills run high for hungry cheer.
To drink or eat in earthen ware we scorn,
Which cheaply country-cupboards does adorn:
And coarse blue hoods on holidays are worn.
Some distant parts of Italy are known,
Where none but only dead men wear a gown:
On theatres of turf, in homely state,
Old plays they act, old feasts they celebrate :
The same rude song returns upon the crowd,
And, by tradition, is for wit allow'd.
The mimic yearly gives the same delights;
And in the mother's arms the clownish infant
Their habits (undistinguish'd by degree)
Are plain alike; the same simplicity,
Both on the stage, and in the pit, you see.
In his white cloak the magistrate appears;
The country-bumkin the same livery wears.
But here, attir'd, beyond our purse we go,
Før useless ornament and flaunting show:
We take on trust, in purpie robes to shine;
And, poor, are yet ambitious to be fine.
This is a common vice, though all things here
Are sold, and sold unconscionably dear.
What will you give that Cossus may but view
Your face, and in the crowd distinguish you;
May take your incense like a gracious god,
And answer only with a civil nod?
To please our patrons, in this vicious age,
We make our entrance by the favourite page:
Shave his first down, and when he pulls his hair,
The consecrated locks to temples bear:
Pay tributary cracknels, which he sells,
And, with our offerings, help to raise his vails.
Who fears in country-towns a house's fall,
Or to be caught betwixt a riven wall?
But we inhabit a weak city here;
Which buttresses and props but scarcely bear:
And 'tis the village-mason's daily calling,
'To keep the world's metropolis from falling,
To cleanse the gutters, and the chinks to close;
And, for one night, secure his lord's repose.
At Cuma we can sleep 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 store
(Few hands will rid the lumber of the poor).
Thy own third story smokes, while thou, supine,
Art drench'd in fumes of undigested wine.
For if the lowest floors already burn,
Cock-loft and garrets soon will take the turn;
Where thy tame pigeons next the tiles were bred,
Which, in their nests unsafe, are timely fled.
Codrus had but one bed, so short to boot, That his short wife's short legs hung dangling out: His cupboard's head six earthen pitchers grac'd, ́ Beneath them was his trusty tankard plac'd: And, to support this noble plate, there lay A bending Chiron cast from honest clay : His few Greek books a rotten chest contain'd; Whose covers much of mouldiness complain'd: Where mice and rats devour'd poetic bread; And with heroic verse luxuriously were fed. 'Tis true, poor Codrus nothing had to boast, And yet poor Codrus all that nothing lost : 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 clothes, the matrons mourn;
The city-pretor will no pleadings hear;
The very name of fire we hate and fear:
And look aghast, as if the Gauls were here.
While yet it burns, th' officious nation flies,
Some to condole, and some to bring supplies:
One sends him marble to rebuild, and one
With naked statues of the Parian stone,
The work of Polyclete, that seem to live;
While others images for altars give,
One books and skreens, and Pallas to the breast;
Another bags of gold, and he gives best.
Childless Arturius, vastly rich before,
Thus by his losses multiplies his store:
Suspected for accomplice to the fire,
That burnt his palace but to build it higher.
But, could you be content to bid adieu
To the dear play-house, and the players too:
Sweet country-seats are purchas'd every where,
With lands and gardens, at less price than here
You hire a darksome dog-hole by the year.
A small convenience decently prepar'd,
A shallow well that rises in your yard,
That spreads his easy crystal streams around,
And waters all the pretty spot of ground.
There, love the fork, thy garden cultivate,
And give thy frugal friends a Pythagorean treat:
'Tis somewhat to be lord of some small ground
In which a lizard may, at least, turn round.
'Tis frequent, here, for want of sleep to die; Which fumes of undigested feasts deny ; And, with imperfect heat, in languid stomachs fry.
What house secure from noise the poor can keep,
When ev'n the rich can scarce afford to sleep;
So dear it costs to purchase rest in Rome;
And hence the sources of diseases come.
The drover who his fellow-drover meets
In narrow passages of winding streets;
The waggoners that curse their standing teams,
Would wake ev'n drowsy Drusius from his dreams.
And yet the wealthy will not brook delay,
But sweep above our heads, and make their way ;
In lofty litters borne, and read and write,
Or sleep at ease: the shutters make it night.
Yet still he reaches first the public place:
The press before him stops the client's pace.
The crowd that follows crush his panting sides,
And trip his heels; he walks not, but he rides.
One elbows him, one justles in the shoal :
A rafter breaks his head, or chairman's pole:
Stocking'd with loads of fat town-dirt he goes;
And some rogue-soldier, with his hob-nail'd shoes,
Indents his legs behind in bloody rows.
See with what smoke our doles we celebrate:
[wait.
A hundred guests, invited, walk in state:
A hundred hungry slaves, with their Dutch kitchens,
Huge pans the wretches on their heads must bear,
Which scarce gigantic Corbulo could rear:
Yet they must walk upright beneath the load:
Nay, run, and running blow the sparkling flames
abroad:
Their coats, from botching newly bought, are torn.
Unwieldy timber-trees in waggons borne,
Stretch'd at their length, beyond their carriage lie;
That nod, and threaten ruin from on high.
For, should their axle break, its overthrow
Would crush, and pound to dust, the crowd below:
Nor friends their friends, nor sires their sons could
know:
Nor limbs, nor bones, nor carcase would remain:
But a mash'd heap, a hotchpotch of the slain.
One vast destruction; not the soul alone,
But bodies, like the soul, visibly are flown.
Meantime, unknowing of their fellows' fate,
The servants wash the platter, scour the plate,
Then blow the fire, with puffing cheeks, and lay
The rubbers, and the bathing sheets display;
And oil them first; and each is handy in his way.
But he, for whom this busy care they take,
Poor ghost! is wandering by the Stygian lake:
Affrighted with the ferryman's grim face;
New to the horrours of that uncouth place;
His passage begs with unregarded prayer :
And wants two farthings to discharge his fare.
Return we to the dangers of the night;
And, first, behold our houses' dreadful height:
From whence come broken potsherds tumbling
down;
And leaky ware, from garret-windows thrown:
. Well may they break our heads, and mark the
flinty stone.
'Tis want of sense to sup abroad too late;
Unless thou first hast settled thy estate.
As many fates attend thy steps to meet,
As there are waking windows in the street.
Bless the good gods, and think thy chance is rare
To have a pisspot only for thy share.
The scouring drunkard, if he does not fight
Before his bed-time, takes no rest that ight:
Passing the tedious hours in greater pain
Than stern Achilles, when his friend was slain.
'Tis so ridiculous, but so true withal,
A bully cannot sleep without a brawl:
Yet, though his youthful blood be fir'd with wine,
He wants not wit the danger to decline:
Is cautious to avoid the coach and six,
And on the lacquies will no quarrel fix.
His train of flambeaux, and embroider'd coat,
May privilege my lord to walk secure on foot.
But me, who must by moonlight homeward bend,
Or lighted only with a candle's end,
Poor me he fights, if that be fighting, where
He only cudgels, and I only bear.
He stands, and bids me stand: I must abide;
For he's the stronger, and is drunk beside. [cries,
"Where did you whet your knife to night," he
"And shred the leeks that in your stomach rise?
Whose windy beans have stuft your guts, and where
Have your black thumbs been dipt in vinegar?
With what companion cobbler have you fed,
On old ox-cheeks, or he-goat's tougher head?
What, are you dumb? Quick with your answer,
Before my foot salutes you with a kick.
Say, in what nasty cellar under ground, [found?"
Or what church-porch, your rogueship may be
Answer, or answer not, 'tis all the same:
He lays me on, and makes me bear the blame,
Before the bar, for beating him you come;
This is a poor man's liberty in Rome.
You beg his pardon; happy to retreat
With some remaining teeth, to chew your meat.
Nor is this all; for when retir'd, you think
To sleep securely; when the candles wink,
When every door with iron-chains is barr'd,
And roaring taverns are no longer heard;
The ruffian-robbers by no justice aw'd,
And unpaid cut-throat soldiers, are abroad,
Those venal souls, who, harden'd in each ill,
To save complaints and persecution, kill.
Chas'd from their woods and bogs, the padders come
To this vast city, as their native home;
To live at ease, and safely skulk in Rome.
The forge in fetters only is employ'd;
Our iron-mines exhausted and destroy'd
In shackles; for these villains scarce allow
Goads for the teams, and plough-shares for the
Oh, happy ages of our ancestors, [plough.
Beneath the kings and tribunitial powers!
One jail did all their criminals restrain;
Which now the walls of Rome can scarce contain.
More I could say, more causes I could slow
For my departure; but the Sun is low:
The waggoner grows weary of my stay;
And whips his horses forwards on their way.
Farewell; and when, like me, o'erwhelm'd with
You to your own Aquinum shall repair,
To take a mouthful of sweet country-air,
Be mindful of your friend; and send me word,
What joys your fountains and cool shades afford:
Then, to assist your satires, I will come;
And add new venom when you write of Rome.
THE SIXTH SATIRE OF
JUVENAL
THIS satire, of almost double length to any of the
rest, is a bitter invective against the fair sex.
It is, indeed, a common-place, from whence all
the moderns have notoriously stolen their
sharpest railleries. In his other satires, the
poet has only glanced on some particular wo-
men, and generally scourged the men.
this he reserved wholly for the ladies. How
they had offended him, I know not: but upon
the whole matter, he is not to be excused for
imputing to all, the vices of some few amongst
them. Neither was it generously done of him,
to attack the weakest as well as the fairest part
of the creation: neither do I know what moral
he could reasonably draw from it. It could not
be to avoid the whole sex, if all had been true
which he alleges against them: for that had
been to put an end to human-kind. And to bid
us beware of their artifices, is a kind of silent
acknowledgment, that they have more wit than
men: which turns the satire upon us, and par-
ticularly upon the poet; who thereby makes a
compliment, where he meant a libel. If he in
The sons of happy punks, the pandar's heir,
Are privileged to sit in triumph there,
To clap the first, and rule the theatre.
Up to the galleries, for shame, retreat; [seat."
For, by the Roscian law, the poor can claim no
Who ever brought to his rich daughter's bed
The man,
that poll'd but twelve-pence for his head?
Who ever nain'd a poor man for his heir,
Or call'd him to assist the judging chair?
The poor were wise, who, by the rich opprest,
Withdrew, and sought a sacred place of rest.
Once they did well, to free themselves from scorn,
But had done better never to return.
Rarely they rise by virtue's aid, who lie
Plung'd in the depth of helpless poverty.
At Rome 'tis worse; where house-rent by the year,
And servants' bellies cost so devilish dear;
And tavern-bills run high for hungry cheer.
To drink or eat in earthen-ware we scorn,
Which cheaply country-cupboards does adorn:
And coarse blue hoods on holidays are worn.
Some distant parts of Italy are known,
Where none but only dead men wear a gown:
On theatres of turf, in homely state,
Old plays they act, old feasts they celebrate:
The same rude song returns upon the crowd,
And, by tradition, is for wit allow'd.
The mimic yearly gives the same delights;
And in the mother's arms the clownish infant
Their habits (undistinguish'd by degree)
Are plain alike; the same simplicity,
Both on the stage, and in the pit, you see.
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 trust, in purpie robes to shine;
And, poor, are yet ambitious to be fine.
This is a common vice, though all things here
Are sold, and sold unconscionably dear.
What will you give that Cossus may but view
Your face, and in the crowd distinguish you;
May take your incense like a gracious god,
And answer only with a civil nod?
To please our patrons, in this vicious age,
We make our entrance by the favourite page:
Shave his first down, and when he pulls his hair,
The consecrated locks to temples bear:
Pay tributary cracknels, which he sells,
And, with our offerings, help to raise his vails.
Who fears in country-towns a house's fall,
Or to be caught betwixt a riven wall?
But we inhabit a weak city here;
Which buttresses and props but scarcely bear:
And 'tis the village-mason's daily calling,
To keep the world's metropolis from falling,
To cleanse the gutters, and the chinks to close;
And, for one night, secure his lord's repose.
At Cuma we can sleep 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 remor'd his wretched støre
(Few hands will rid the lumber of the poor).
Thy own third story smokes, while thou, supine,
Art drench'd in fumes of undigested wine.
For if the lowest floors already burn,
Cock-loft and garrets soon will take the turn;
Where thy tame pigeons next the tiles were bred,
Which, in their nests unsafe, are timely fled.
Codrus had but one bed, so short to boot, That his short wife's short legs hung dangling out: His cupboard's head six earthen pitchers grac'd, Beneath them was his trusty tankard plac`d: And, to support this noble plate, there lay A bending Chiron cast from honest clay: His few Greek books a rotten chest contain'd; Whose covers much of mouldiness complain'd: Where mice and rats devour'd poetic bread; And with heroic verse luxuriously were fcd. 'Tis true, poor Codrus nothing had to boast, And yet poor Codrus all that nothing lost: 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 clothes, the matrons
The city-pretor will no pleadings hear;
The very name of fire we hate and fear:
And look aghast, as if the Gauls were here.
While yet it burus, th' officious nation flies,
Some to condole, and some to bring supplies :
One sends him marble to rebuild, and oue
With naked statues of the Parian stone,
The work of Polyclete, that seem to live;
While others images for altars give,
One books and skreens, and Pallas to the breast;
Another bags of gold, and he gives best.
Childless Arturius, vastly rich before,
Thus by his losses multiplies his store:
Suspected for accomplice to the fire,
That burnt his palace but to build it higher.
But, could you be content to bid adieu
To the dear play-house, and the players too:
Sweet country-seats are purchas'd every where,
With lands and gardens, at less price than here
You hire a darksome dog-hole by the year.
A sinall convenience decently prepar'd,
A shallow well that rises in your yard,
That spreads his easy crystal streams around,
And waters all the pretty spot of ground.
There, love the fork, thy garden cultivate,
And give thy frugal friends a Pythagorean treat:
'Tis somewhat to be lord of some small ground
In which a lizard may, at least, turn round.
'Tis frequent, here, for want of sleep to die;
Which fumes of undigested feasts deny ;
And, with imperfect heat, in languid stomachs
fry.
What house secure from noise the poor can keep,
When ev'n the rich can scarce afford to sleep;
So dear it costs to purchase rest in Rome;
And hence the sources of diseases come.
The drover who his fellow drover meets
In narrow passages of winding streets;
The waggoners that curse their standing teams,
Would wake ev'n drowsy Drusius from his dreams.
And yet the wealthy will not brook delay,
But sweep above our heads, and make their way;
In lofty litters borne, and read and write,
Or sleep at ease: the shutters make it night.
Yet still he reaches first the public place:
The
press before him stops the client's pace.
The crowd that follows crush his panting sides,
And trip his heels; he walks not, but he rides.
One elbows him, one justles in the shoal:
A rafter breaks his head, or chairman's pole:
Stocking'd with loads of fat town-dirt he goes ;
And some rogue-soldier, with his hob-nail'd shoes,
Indents his legs behind in bloody rows.
See with what smoke our doles we celebrate:
A hundred guests, invited, walk in state: [wait.
A hundred hungry slaves, with their Dutch kitchens,
Huge pans the wretches on their heads must bear,
Which scarce gigantic Corbulo could rear:
Yet they must walk upright beneath the load:
Nay, run, and running blow the sparkling flames
abroad :
Their coats, from botching newly bought, are torn.
Unwieldy timber-trees in waggons borne,
Stretch'd at their length, beyond their carriage lie;
That nod, and threaten ruin from on high.
For, should their axle break, its overthrow
Would crush, and pound to dust, the crowd below:
Nor friends their friends, nor sires their sons could
know:
Nor limbs, nor bones, nor carcase would remain:
But a mash'd heap, a hotchpotch of the slain.
One vast destruction; not the soul alone,
But bodies, like the soul, visibly are flown.
Meantime, unknowing of their fellows' fate,
The servants wash the platter, scour the plate,
Then blow the fire, with puffing cheeks, and lay
The rubbers, and the bathing sheets display;
And oil them first; and each is handy in his way.
But he, for whom this busy care they take,
Poor ghost! is wandering by the Stygian lake:
Affrighted with the ferryman's grim face;
New to the horrours of that uncouth place;
His passage begs with unregarded prayer:
And wants two farthings to discharge his fare.
Return we to the dangers of the night;
And, first, behold our houses' dreadful height:
From whence come broken potsherds tumbling
down;
And leaky ware, from garret-windows thrown: Well may they break our heads, and mark the flinty stone.
'Tis want of sense to sup abroad too late;
Unless thou first hast settled thy estate.
As many fates attend thy steps to meet,
As there are waking windows in the street.
Bless the good gods, and think thy chance is rare
To have a pisspot only for thy share.
The scouring drunkard, if he does not fight
Before his bed-time, takes no rest thatight:
Passing the tedious hours in greater pain
Than stern Achilles, when his friend was slain.
'Tis so ridiculous, but so true withal,
A bully cannot sleep without a brawl:
Yet, though his youthful blood be fir'd with wine,
He wants not wit the danger to decline:
Is cautious to avoid the coach and six,
And on the lacquies will no quarrel fix.
His train of flambeaux, and embroider'd coat,
May privilege my lord to walk secure on foot.
But me, who must by moonlight homeward bend,
Or lighted only with a candle's end,
Poor me he fights, if that be fighting, where
He only cudgels, and I only bear.
He stands, and bids me stand: I must abide;
For he's the stronger, and is drunk beside. [cries,
"Where did you whet your knife to night," he
"And shred the leeks that in your stomach rise?
Whose windy beans have stuft your guts, and where
Have your black thumbs been dipt in vinegar?
With what companion cobbler have you fed,
On old ox-cheeks, or he-goat's tougher head?
What, are you dumb? Quick with your answer,
Before my fout salutes you with a kick.
Say, in what nasty cellar under ground, [found?"
Or what church-porch, your rogueship may be
Answer, or answer not, 'tis all the same:
He lays me on, and makes me bear the blame,
Before the bar, for beating him you come;
This a poor man's liberty in Rome.
You beg his pardon; happy to retreat
With some remaining teeth, to chew your meat.
Nor is this all; for when retir'd, you think
To sleep securely; when the candles wink,
When every door with iron-chains is barr'd,
And roaring taverns are no longer heard;
The ruffian-robbers by no justice aw'd,
And unpaid cut-throat soldiers, are abroad,
Those venal souls, who, harden'd in each ill,
To save complaints and persecution, kill.
Chas'd from their woods and bogs, the padders come
To this vast city, as their native home;
To live at ease, and safely skulk in Rome.
The forge in fetters only is employ'd;
Our iron-mines exhausted and destroy'd
In shackles; for these villains scarce allow
Goads for the teams, and plough-shares for the
Oh, happy ages of our ancestors, [plough.
Beneath the kings and tribunitial powers!
One jail did all their criminals restrain;
Which now the walls of Rome can scarce contain.
More I could say, more causes I could show
For my departure; but the Sun is low:
The waggoner grows weary of my stay;
And whips his horses forwards on their way.
Farewell; and when, like me, o'erwhelm'd with
You to your own Aquinum shall repair,
To take a mouthful of sweet country-air,
Be mindful of your friend; and send me word,
What joys your fountains and cool shades afford:
Then, to assist your satires, I will come;
And add new venom when you write of Rome.
THIS satire, of almost double length to any of the rest, is a bitter invective against the fair sex. It is, indeed, a common-place, from whence all the moderns have notoriously stolen their sharpest railleries. In his other satires, the poet has only glanced on some particular women, and generally scourged the men. But this he reserved wholly for the ladies. they had offended him, I know not: but upon the whole matter, he is not to be excused for imputing to all, the vices of some few amongst Neither was it generously done of him, to attack the weakest as well as the fairest part of the creation: neither do I know what moral he could reasonably draw from it. It could not be to avoid the whole sex, if all had been true which he alleges against them: for that had been to put an end to human-kind. And to bid us beware of their artifices, is a kind of silent acknowledgment, that they have more wit than men which turns the satire upon us, and particularly upon the poet; who thereby makes a compliment, where he meant a libel. If he in
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