Forbear to make that lovely charming face
The prey to every envious disease:
Preserve those looks to be enjoy'd by me,
Which none should ever but with wonder see:
Let that fresh colour to your cheeks return,
Whose glowing flame did all beholders burn:
But let on him, th' unhappy cause of all
The ills that from Diana's anger fall,
No greater torments light than those I feel,
When you, my dearest, tenderest part, are ill.
For, oh! with what dire tortures am I rack'd,
Whom different griefs successively distract!
Sometimes my grief from this does higher grow,
To think that I have caus'd so much to you.
Then, great Diana's witness, how I pray
That all our crimes on me alone she'd lay!
Sometimes to your lov'd doors disguis'd I come,
And all around them up and down I roam;
Till I your woman coming from you spy,
With looks dejected, and a weeping eye.
With silent steps, like some sad ghost, I steal
Close up to her, and urge her to reveal
More than new questions suffer her to tell:
How you had slept, what diet you had us'd?
And oft the vain physician's art accus'd.
He every hour (oh, were I blest as he!)
Does all the turns of your distemper see.
Why sit not I by your bed-side all day,
My mournful head in your warm bosom lay,
Till with my tears the inward fires decay?
Why press not I your melting hand in mine,
And from your pulse of my own health divine?
But, oh! these wishes all are vain; and he
Whom most I fear, may now sit close by thee,
Forgetful as thou art of Heaven and me.

He that lov'd hand doth press, and oft doth feign
Some new excuse to feel thy beating vein.
Then his bold hand up to your arm doth slide,
And in your panting breast itself does hide;
Kisses sometimes he snatches too from thee,
For his officious care too great a fee.
Robber, who gave thee leave, to taste that lip,
And the ripe harvest of my kisses reap?
For they are mine, so is that bosom too,
Which, false as 'tis, shall never harbour you:
Take, take away those thy adulterous hands,
For know, another lord that breast commands.
'Tis true, her father promis'd her to thee,
But Heaven and she first gave herself to me:
And you in justice therefore should decline
Your claim to that which is already mine.
This is the man, Cydippe, that excites
Diana's rage, to vindicate her rites.
Command him then not to approach thy door;
This done, the danger of your death is o'er.
For fear not, beauteous maid, but keep thy vow,
Which great Diana heard, and did allow.
And she who took it, will thy health restore,
And be propitious as she was before.

'Tis not the steam of a slain heifer's blood
That can allay the anger of a god:
'Tis truth, and justice to your vows, appease
Their angry deities; and without these
No slaughter'd beast their fury can divert,
For that's a sacrifice without a heart.
Some, bitter potions patiently endure,

Why let you still your pious parents weep,
Whom you in ignorance of your promise keep?
Oh! to your mother all our story tell,
And the whole progress of our love reveal:
Tell her how first, at great Diana's shrine,
I fix'd my eyes, my wondering eyes, on thine:
How like the statues there I stood amaz'd,
Whilst on thy face intemperately I gaz'd.
She will herself, when you my tale repeat,
Smile, and approve the amorous deceit.
'Marry," she'll say, "whom Heaven commends to
He, who has pleas'd Diana, pleases me." [thee,
But should she ask from what descent I came,
My country, and my parents, and my name;
Tell her, that none of these deserve my shame.
Had you not sworn, you such a one might choose;
But, were he worse, now sworn, you can't refuse.
This in my dreams Diana bade me write,
And when I wak'd, sent Cupid to indite.
Obey them both, for one has wounded me,
Which wound if you with eyes of pity see,
She too will soon relent that wounded thee.
Then to our joys with eager haste we'll move,
As full of beauty you, as 1 of love:
To the great temple we 'll in triumph go,
And with our offerings at the altar bow.
A golden image there I'll consecrate,
Of the false apple's innocent deceit;
And write below the happy verse that came
The messenger of my successful flame:
"Let all the world this from Acontius know,
Cydippe has been faithful to her vow."

More I could write! but, since thy illness reigns,
And racks thy tender limbs with sharpest pains,
My pen falls down for fear, lest this might be,
Although for me too little, yet too much for thee.

JUVENAL, SAT. IV.

THE ARGUMENT. The poet in this satire first brings in Crispinus, whom he had a lash at in his first satire, and whom he promises here not to be forgetful of for the future. He exposes his monstrous prodigality and luxury, in giving the price of an estate for a barbel: and from thence takes oc

casion to introduce the principal subject and true design of this satire, which is grounded upon a ridiculous story of a turbot presented to Domitian, of so vast a bigness, that all the emperor's scullery had not a dish large enough to hold it: upon which the senate in all haste is summoned, to consult, in this exigency, what is fittest to be done. The poet gives us a par ticular of the senators' names, their distinct characters, and speeches, and advice; and, after much and wise consultation, an expedient being found out and agreed upon, he dismisses the senate, and concludes the satire.

ONCE more Crispinus call'd upon the stage
(Nor shall once more suffice) provokes my rage
A monster, to whom every vice lays claim,

And kiss the wounding lance that works their Without one virtue to redeem his fame.

cure:

You have no need these cruel cures to feel,

Shun being perjur'd only, and be well.

Feeble and sick, yet strong in lust alone,
The rank adulterer preys on all the town,
All but the widows' nauseous charms go down.

What matter then how stately is the arch [march? | Where Venus' shrine does fair Ancona grace,
Where his tir'd mules slow with their burthen
What matter then how thick and long the shade
Through which he is by sweating slaves convey'd?
How many acres near the city walls
Or new-built palaces, his own he calls?
No ill man's happy; least of all is he
Whose study 'tis to corrupt chastity;

Th' incestuous brute, who the veil'd vestal maid
But lately to his impious bed betray'd,

A turbot taken, of prodigious space,
Fill'd the extended net, not less than those
That duil Mæotis does with ice enclose;
Till, conquer'd by the Sun's prevailing ray,
It opens to the Pontic sea their way;
And throws them out unwieldy with their growth,
Fat with long ease, and a whole winter's sloth:
The wise commander of the boat and lines,
For our high priest 8 the stately prey designs;

Who for his crime, if laws their course might have, For who that lordly fish durst sell or buy,
Ought to descend alive into the grave'.

But now of sli hter faults; and yet the same
By others done, the censor's justice claim.
For what good men ignoble count and base,
Is virtue here, and does Crispinus grace:
In this he 's safe, whate'er we write of him,
The person is more odious than the crime.
And so all satire's lost. The lavish slave
Six thousand pieces for a barbel gave:
A sesterce for each pound it weigh'd, as they
Gave out, that hear great things, but greater say.
If, by this bribe well plac'd, he would ensnare
Some sapless usurer that wants an heir,
Or if this present the sly courtier meant
Should to some punk of quality be sent,
That in her easy chair in state does ride,
The glasses all drawn up on every side,
I'd praise his cunning; but expect not this,
For his own gut he bought the stately fish.
Now even Apicius3 frugal seems, and poor,
Outvy'd in luxury unknown before.

Gave you, Crispinus, you this mighty sum;
You that, for want of other rags, did come
In your own country paper wrapp'd to Rome?
Do scales and fins bear price to this excess?
You might have bought the fishermen for less.
For less some provinces whole acres sell!
Nay, in Apulia, if you bargain well,
A manor would cost less than such a meal.
What think we then of this luxurious lord 5?
What banquets loaded that imperial board?
When, one dish, that, taken from the rest,
His constant table would have hardly miss'd,
So many sesterces were swallow'd down,
To stuff one scarlet-coated court buffoon,
Whom Rome of all her knights now chiefest greets,
From crying stinking fish about her streets.
Begin, Calliope, but not to sing:
Plain, honest truth we for our subject bring.
Help then, ye young Pierian maids, to tell
A downright narrative of what befell,
Afford me willingly your sacred aids,

Me that have call'd you young, me that have styl'd
you maids.

When he, with whom the Flavian race decay'd6,
The groaning world with iron sceptre sway'd,
When a bald Nero7 reign'd, and servile Rome
obey'd,

Crispinus had seduced a vestal virgin; and, by the law of Numa, should have been buried alive. 2 Roman sestertii.

3 Famous for gluttony, even to a proverb. See Dr. King's Art of Cookery.

Where land was remarkably cheap.

5 Domitian.

6 Domitian was the last and worst of that family. Domitian, from his cruelty, was called a se

cond Nero; and, from his baldness, Calvus.

So many spies and court-informers nigh?
No shore but of this vermin swarms does bear,
Searchers of mud and sea-weed! that would swear
The fish had long in Cæsar's ponds been fed,
And from its lord undutifully fled,

So, justly ought to be again restor❜d:
Nay, if you credit sage Palphurius'9 word,
Or dare rely on Armillatus'9 skill,
Whatever fish the vulgar fry excel
Belong to Cæsar, wheresoe'er they swim,
By their own worth confiscated to him.
The boatman then shall a wise present make,
And give the fish before the seizers take.

Now sickly Autumn to dry frosts gave way,
Cold Winter rag'd, and fresh preserv'd the prey;
Yet with such haste the busy fishes flew,
As if with a hot south-wind corruption blew:
And now he reach'd the lake, where what remains
Of Alba still her ancient rites retains,
Still worships Vesta, though an humbler way,
Nor lets the hallow'd Trojan fire decay.

[sort,

The wondering crowd, that to strange sights re-
And choak'd a while his passage to the court,
At length gives way; ope flies the palace-gate,
The turbot enters in, without the fathers 10 wait;
The boatmen straight does to Atrides press,
And thus presents his fish, and his address:

Accept, dread sir, this tribute from the main,
Too great for private kitchens to contain.
To your glad genius sacrifice this day,
Let common meats respectfully give way.
Haste to unload your stomachs, to receive
This turbot, that for you did only live.
So long preserv'd to be imperial food,
Glad of the net, and to be taken proud."

How fulsome this! how gross! yet this takes
well,

And the vain prince with empty pride does swell.
Nothing so monstrous can be said or feign'd,
But with belief and joy is entertain'd,
When to his face the worthless wretch is prais'd,
Whom vile court-flattery to a god has rais'd.

But oh, hard fate! the palace stores no dish
Afford, capacious of the mighty fish.
To sage debate are summon'd all the peers,
His trusty and much-hated counsellors,
In whose pale looks that ghastly terrour sat,
That haunts the dangerous friendships of the great.

The loud Liburnian", that the senate call'd,
"Run, run; he 's set, he's set!" no sooner bawl'd,
But, with his robe snatcht up in haste, does come
Pegasus 2, bailiff of affrighted Rome.

8 A title often assumed by the emperors.

9 Both of consular degree, yet spies and informers.

10 The senate, or patres conscripti.

"The Roman criers were usually of this country.
12 A learned lawyer, and prefect of Rome.

1

What more were prefects then? The best he was,
And faithfullest expounder of the laws.
Yet in ill times thought all things manag'd best,
When Justice exercis'd her sword the least.
Old Crispus 13 next, pleasant though old, appears,
His wit nor humour yielding to his years.
His temper mild, good-nature join'd with sense,
And manners charming as his eloquence.
Who fitter for a useful friend than he,
To the great ruler of the earth and sea,

If, as his thoughts were just, his tongue were free?
If it were safe to vent his generous mind
To Rome's dire plague, and terrour of mankind;
If cruel Power could softening counsel bear,
But what's so tender as a tyrant's ear;
With whom whoever, though a favourite, spake,
At every sentence set his life at stake,

Though the discourse were of no weightier things,
Than sultry summers, or unhealthful springs?
This well he knew, and therefore never try'd,
With his weak arms, to stem the stronger tide.
Nor did all Rome, grown spiritless, supply
A man that for bold truth durst bravely die.
So, safe by wise complying silence, he
Ev'n in that court did fourscore summers see.
Next him Acilius, though his age the same,
With eager haste to the grand council came:
With him a youth, unworthy of the fate
That did too near his growing virtues wait,
Urg'd by the tyrant's envy, fear, or hate.
(But 'tis long since old age began to be
In noble blood no less than prodigy,
Whence 'tis I'd rather be of giants' birth 14,
A pigmy brother to those sons of Earth.)
Unhappy youth! whom from his destin'd end,
No well-dissembled madness could defend,
When naked in the Alban theatre,

In Libyan bears he fixt his hunting spear.
Who sees not now through the lord's thin dis-
guise,

That long seem'd fool, to prove at last more wise?
That stale court trick is now too open laid:
Who now admires the part old Brutus play'd's ?
Those honest times might swallow this pretence,
When the king's beard was deeper than his sense.
Next Rubrius came, though not of noble race,
With equal marks of terrour in his face.
Pale with the gnawing guilt and inward shame
Of an old crime, that is not fit to name.
Worse, yet in scandal taking more delight,
Than the vile pathic 16 that durst satire write.
Montanus' belly next, advancing slow
Before the sweating senator, did go.

Cunning Vejento next, and by his side
Bloody Catullus leaning on his guide.
Decrepit, yet a furious lover he,

And deeply smit with charms he could not see.
A monster, that ev'n this worst age outvies,
Conspicuous, and above the common size.
A blind base flatterer, from some bridge or gate18,
Rais'd to a murdering minister of state;
Deserving still to beg upon the road,
And bless each passing waggon and its load,
None more admir'd the fish; he in its praise
With zeal his voice, with zeal his hands did raise;
But to the left all his fine things did say,
Whilst on his right the unseen turbot lay.
So be the fam'd Cilician fencer prais'd,
And at each hit with wonder seem'd amaz'd:
So did the scenes and stage machines admire,
And boys that flew through canvass clouds in wire.
Nor came Vejento short; but, as inspir'd
By thee, Bellona, by thy fury fir'd,
Turns prophet. "See the mighty omen, see,"
He cries," of some illustrious victory!
Some captive king thee his new lord shall own;
Or from his British chariot headlong thrown
The proud Arviragus come tumbling down!
The monster's foreign. Mark the pointed spears
That from thy hand on his pierc'd back he wears!"
Who nobler could, or plainer things presage?
Yet one thing 'scap'd him, the prophetic rage
Show'd not the turbot's country, nor its age.

Crispinus after, but much sweeter comes,
Scented with costly oils and eastern gums,
More than would serve two funerals for perfumes.
Then Pompey, none more skill'd in the court-
game

Of cutting throats with a soft whisper, came.
Next Fuscus 17, he who many a peaceful day
For Dacian vultures was reserv'd a prey,
Till, having study'd war enough at home,
He led abroad th' unhappy arms of Rome.

At length by Cæsar the grand question's put:
"My lords, your judgement; shall the fish be cut?"
"Far be it, far from us," Montanus cries;
"Let's not dishonour thus the noble prize!
A pot of finest earth, thin, deep, and wide,
Some skilful quick Prometheus must provide.
Clay and the forming wheel prepare with speed.
But, Cæsar, be it from henceforth decreed,
That potters on the royal progress wait,
T'assist in these emergencies of state."

This counsel pleas'd; nor could it fail to take,
So fit, so worthy of the man that spake.
The old court riots he remember'd well;
Could tales of Nero's midnight suppers tell,
When Falern wines the labouring lungs did fire,
And to new dainties kindled false desire.
In arts of eating, none more early train'd,
None in my time had equal skill attain❜d.
He, whether Circe's rock his oysters bore,
Or Lucrine lake, or the Rutupian shore,
Know at first taste, nay at first sight could tell
A crab or lobster's country by its shell.

They rise; and straight all, with respectful awe,
At the word given, obsequiously withdraw,
Whom, full of eager haste, surprise, and fear,
Our mighty prince had summon'd to appear;
As if some news he 'd of the Catti tell,
Or that the fierce Sicambrians did rebel:
As if expresses from all parts had come
With fresh alarms threatening the fate of Rome.
What folly this! But, oh! that all the rest
Of his dire reign had thus been spent in jest;
And all that time such trifles had employ'd
In which so many nobles he destroy'd;

13 Who made the jest on Domitian's killing flies. He safe, they unreveng'd, to the disgrace

14 Of an obscure and unknown family.

15 In counterfeiting madness.

16 Nero, who charged his own crimes on Quin

tianus.

Conelius Fuscus, who was slain in Dacia.

Of the surviving, tame, patrician race!
But, when he dreadful to the rabble grew,
Him, whom so many lords had slain, they slew.

18 The common stands for beggars.

TELL me, Alexis, whence these sorrows grow?
From what hid spring do these salt torrents flow?
Why hangs the head of my afflicted swain;
Like bending lilies over-charg'd with rain?

Let these, and only these, thus plague themselves.
For though they fear what neither shall nor can be,
'Tis punishment enough it makes them live,
Live, to endure the dreadfui apprehension
Of death, to them so dreadful; but why dreadful,
At least to virtuous minds ?- -To be at rest,
To sleep, and never hear of trouble more,
Say, is this dreadful? Heart, wouldst thou be at
quiet?

Dost thou thus beat for rest, and long for ease,
And not command thy friendly hand to help thee?
What hand can be so easy as thy own,

To apply the medicine that cures all diseases?

AN EPISTLE'

TO MR. OTWAY.

AD THOMAM OTWAY.

MUSARUM nostrûmque decus, charissime Thoma,
O animæ melior pars, Otoæe, meæ;
Accipe quæ sacri tristes ad littora Cami
Avulsi vestro flevimus à gremio.

Quot mihi tunc gemitus ex imo pectore ducti,
Perque meas lacrymæ quot cecidere genas,
Et salices testes, & plurima testis arundo,

Et Camus pigro tristior amne fluens.
Audiit ipse etenim Deus, & miserata dolores
Lubrica paulisper constitit unda mers.
Tunc ego; vos nymphæ viridi cireur.ita musco
Atria quæ colitis, tuque, verende Deus,
Audite O qualem absentem ploramus amicum,
Audite ut lacrymis auctior amnis eat.
Pectoris is candore nives, constantibus arcti
Stellam animis, certâ fata vel ipsa fide;
Ille & Amore columbas, ille & Marte leones
Vincit, Pierias ingenioque Deas,
Sive vocat jocus, & charites, & libera vini
Gaudia, cumque suâ matre sonandus Amor.
Ille potest etiam numeros æquare canendo
Sive tuos, Ovidi, sive, Catulle, tuos.
Sive admirantis moderatur fræna theatri,
Itque cothurnato Musa superba pede,
Fulmina vel Sophoclis Lycophrontæasve tene-
bras,

DEAR Tom, how melancholy I am grown
Since thou hast left this learned dirty town',
To thee by this dull letter be it known.
Whilst all my comfort, under all this care,
Are duns, and puns, and logic, and small beer.
Thou seest I'm dull as Shadwell's men of wit,
Or the top scene that Settle ever writ:
The sprightly court that wander up and down
From gudgeons to a race, from town to town,
All, all are fled; but them I well can spare,
For I'm so dull I have no business there.
I have forgot whatever there I knew,
Why men one stocking tye with ribbon blue:
Why others medals wear, a fine gilt thing,
That at their breasts hang dangling by a string;
(Yet stay, I think that I to mind recal,
For once3 a squirt was rais'd by Windsor wall).
1 know no officer of court; nay more,
No dog of court, their favourite before.
Should Veny fawn, I should not understand her,
Nor who committed incest for Legander.
Unpolish'd thus, an arrant scholar grown,
What should I do but sit and coo alone,
And thee, my absent mate, for ever moan.
Thus 'tis sometimes, and sorrow plays its part,
Till other thoughts of thee revive my heart.
For, whilst with wit, with women, and with wine,
Thy glad heart beats, and noble face does shine,
Thy joys we at this distance feel and know;
Thou kindly wishest it with us were so.
Then thee we name; this heard, cries James," For

him,

Leap up, thou sparkling wine, and kiss the brim:
Crosses attend the man who dares to flinch,
Great as that man deserves who drinks not Finch."
But these are empty joys, without you two,
We drink your names, alas! but where are you?
My dear, whom 1 more cherish in my breast
Than by thy own soft Muse can be exprest;
True to thy word, afford one visit more,
Else I shall grow, from him thou lov'dst before,
A greasy blockhead fellow in a gown,、
(Such as is, sir, a cousin of your own)
With my own hair, a band, and ten long nails,
And wit that at a quibble never fails.

In answer to one in Otway's Poems.
Mr. Duke was then at Cambridge.
DUKE.

3 Sir Samuel Moreland.

Carminis aut fastus, Eschyle magne, tui,
Vincit munditiis & majestate decorâ,

Tam bene naturam pingere docta manus,
Hæc ego, cum spectans labentia flumina, versus
Venere in mentem, magne poeta tui.

"Who for preferments," &c.

[See Otway's Poems.]

"Premia quis meritis ingratâ expectet ab Aulâ,
Omnis ubi exiguam captat simul Aulicus escam
Gobio? quis piscis sapientior illa vadosa
Fulminis angusti coleret loca, pisciculorum
Esurientem inter, trepidantemque inter acervum,
Qui dum quisque micat, medicatam ut glutiat
offam,

Trudunt, impellunt, truduntur, & impelluntur;
Nec potius, latum gremio quâ flumen aperto
Et requiem, & muscos virides, pulchramque vo-
Invitat, totis pinnarum remigat alis,

catus

Ad libertatem prono delabitur alveo?"
Quos tibi pro tali persolvam carmine grates,

O animi interpres, magne Poeta, mei!
Nos neque solicita Natura effinxit ad urbis
Officia, aut fraudes, Aula dolosa, tuas:
Nos procul à cœno, & strepitu, fumoque re-
motos,

Cum Venere & Musis myrtea scena tegat!
Nos paribus cantare animis permittat Apollo
Flammas meque tuas, teque, Otoæe, meas.
Ergone me penitus vestris hærere medullis,
Ergone sincerus me tibi junxit Amor?
Tu quoque, tu nostris habitas, mea vita, me-
dullis,

Teque meo æternus pectore figit Amor.
In another place.

Qualia tu scribis, vel qualia Carolus ille

Noster, amor Phobi, Pieridumque decus.