The Satires of Juvenal, Persius, Sulpicia, and Lucilius
And curse, too late, the unavailing Nine!
Hear, now, what sneaking ways your patrons find,
To save their darling gold:--they pay in kind!
Verses, composed in every Muse's spite,
To the starved bard, they, in their turn, recite; 60
And, if they yield to Homer, let him know,
'Tis--that he lived a thousand years ago!
But if, inspired with genuine love of fame,
A dry rehearsal only be your aim,
The miser's breast with sudden warmth dilates, 65
And lo! he opes his triple-bolted gates;
Nay, sends his clients to support your cause,
And rouse the tardy audience to applause:
But will not spare one farthing to defray
The numerous charges of this glorious day, 70
The desk where, throned in conscious pride, you sit,
The joists and beams, the orchestra and the pit.
Still we persist; plow the light sand, and sow
Seed after seed, where none can ever grow:
Nay, should we, conscious of our fruitless pain, 75
Strive to escape, we strive, alas! in vain;
Long habit and the thirst of praise beset,
And close us in the inextricable net.
The insatiate itch of scribbling, hateful pest,
Creeps like a tetter, through the human breast, 80
Nor knows, nor hopes a cure; since years, which chill
All other passions, but inflame the ill!
But HE, the bard of every age and clime,
Of genius fruitful, ardent and sublime,
Who, from the glowing mint of fancy, pours 85
No spurious metal, fused from common ores,
But gold, to matchless purity refined,
And stamped with all the godhead in his mind;
He whom I feel, but want the power to paint,
Springs from a soul impatient of restraint, 90
And free from every care; a soul that loves
The Muse's haunts, clear founts and shady groves.
Never, no never, did He wildly rave,
And shake his thyrsus in the Aonian cave,
Whom poverty kept sober, and the cries 95
Of a lean stomach, clamorous for supplies:
No; the wine circled briskly through the veins,
When Horace poured his dithyrambic strains!--
What room for fancy, say, unless the mind,
And all its thoughts, to poesy resigned, 100
Be hurried with resistless force along,
By the two kindred Powers of Wine and Song!
O! 'tis the exclusive business of a breast
Impetuous, uncontrolled--not one distress'd
With household cares, to view the bright abodes, 105
The steeds, the chariots, and the forms of gods:
And the fierce Fury, as her snakes she shook,
And withered the Rutulian with a look!
Those snakes, had Virgil no Mæcenas found, }
Had dropp'd, in listless length, upon the ground; } 110
And the still slumbering trump, groaned with no mortal sound. }
Yet we expect, from Lappa's tragic rage,
Such scenes as graced, of old, the Athenian stage;
Though he, poor man, from hand to mouth be fed,
And driven to pawn his furniture for bread! 115
When Numitor is asked to serve a friend,
"He can not; he is poor." Yet he can send
Rich presents to his mistress! he can buy
Tame lions, and find means to keep them high!
What then? the beasts are still the lightest charge; 120
For your starved bards have maws so devilish large!
Stretched in his marble palace, at his ease,
Lucan may write, and only ask to please;
But what is this, if this be all you give,
To Bassus and Serranus? They must live! 125
When Statius fixed a morning, to recite
His Thebaid to the town, with what delight
They flocked to hear! with what fond rapture hung
On the sweet strains, made sweeter by his tongue!
Yet, while the seats rung with a general peal 130
Of boisterous praise, the bard had lacked a meal,
Unless with Paris he had better sped,
And trucked a virgin tragedy for bread.
Mirror of men! he showers, with liberal hands,
On needy poets, honors and commands:-- 135
An actor's patronage a peer's outgoes,
And what the last withholds, the first bestows!
--And will you still on Camerinus wait,
And Bareas? will you still frequent the great?
Ah, rather to the player your labors take, 140
And at one lucky stroke your fortune make!
Yet envy not the man who earns hard bread
By tragedy: the Muses' friends are fled!--
Mæcenas, Proculeius, Fabius, gone,
And Lentulus, and Cotta--every one! 145
THEN worth was cherished, then the bard might toil,
Secure of favor, o'er the midnight oil;
Then all December's revelries refuse,
And give the festive moments to the Muse.
So fare the tuneful race: but ampler gains 150
Await, no doubt, the grave HISTORIANS' pains!
More time, more study they require, and pile
Page upon page, heedless of bulk the while,
Till, fact conjoined to fact with thought intense,
The work is closed, at many a ream's expense! 155
Say now, what harvest was there ever found,
What golden crop, from this long-labored ground?
'Tis barren all; and one poor plodding scribe
Gets more by framing pleas than all the tribe.
True:--'tis a slothful breed, that, nursed in ease, 160
Soft beds, and whispering shades, alone can please.
Say then, what gain the LAWYER'S toil affords,
His sacks of papers, and his war of words?
Heavens! how he bellows in our tortured ears;
But then, then chiefly, when the client hears, 165
Or one prepared, with vouchers, to attest
Some desperate debt, more anxious than the rest,
Twitches his elbow: then, his passions rise!
Then, forth he puffs the immeasurable lies
From his swollen lungs! then, the white foam appears, 170
And, driveling down his beard, his vest besmears!
Ask you the profit of this painful race?
'Tis quickly summed: Here, the joint fortunes place
Of five-score lawyers; there, Lacerta's sole--
And that one charioteer's, shall poise the whole! 175
The Generals take their seats in regal wise.
You, my pale Ajax, watch the hour, and rise,
In act to plead a trembling client's cause,
Before Judge Jolthead--learned in the laws.
Now stretch your throat, unhappy man! now raise 180
Your clamors, that, when hoarse, a bunch of bays,
Stuck in your garret window, may declare,
That some victorious pleader nestles there!
O glorious hour! but what your fee, the while?
A rope of shriveled onions from the Nile, 185
A rusty ham, a jar of broken sprats,
And wine, the refuse of our country vats;
Five flagons for four causes! if you hold,
Though this indeed be rare, a piece of gold;
The brethren, _as per contract_, on you fall, 190
And share the prize, solicitors and all!
Whate'er he asks, Æmilius may command,
Though more of law be ours: but lo! there stand
Before his gate, conspicuous from afar,
Four stately steeds, yoked to a brazen car: 195
And the great pleader, looking wary round,
On a fierce charger that disdains the ground,
Levels his threatening spear, in act to throw,
And seems to meditate no common blow.
Such arts as these, to beggary Matho brought, 200
And such the ruin of Tongillus wrought,
Who, with his troop of slaves, a draggled train,
Annoyed the baths, of his huge oil-horn vain;
Swept through the Forum, in a chair of state,
To every auction--villas, slaves, or plate; 205
And, trading on the credit of his dress,
Cheapened whate'er he saw, though penniless!
And some, indeed, have thriven by tricks like these:
Purple and violet swell a lawyer's fees;
Bustle and show above his means conduce 210
To business, and profusion proves of use.
The vice is universal: Rome confounds
The wealthiest;--prodigal beyond all bounds!
Could our old pleaders visit earth again,
Tully himself would scarce a brief obtain, 215
Unless his robe were purple, and a stone,
Diamond or ruby, on his finger shone.
The wary plaintiff, ere a fee he gives,
Inquires at what expense his counsel lives;
Has he eight slaves, ten followers? chairs to wait, 220
And clients to precede his march in state?
This Paulus knows full well, and, therefore, hires
A ring to plead in; therefore, too, acquires
More briefs than Cossus:--preference not unsound,
For how should eloquence in rags be found? 225
Who gives poor Basilus a cause of state?
When, to avert a trembling culprit's fate,
Shows he a weeping mother? or who heeds
How close he argues, and how well he pleads?
Unhappy Basilus!--but he is wrong: 230
Would he procure subsistence by his tongue,
Let him renounce the forum, and withdraw
To Gaul, or Afric, the dry-nurse of law.
But Vectius, yet more desperate than the rest,
Has opened (O that adamantine breast!) 235
A RHETORIC school; where striplings rave and storm
At tyranny, through many a crowded form.--
The exercises lately, sitting, read,
Standing, distract his miserable head,
And every day and every hour affords 240
The selfsame subjects, in the selfsame words;
Till, like hashed cabbage served for each repast,
The repetition--kills the wretch at last!
Where the main jet of every question lies,
And whence the chief objections may arise, 245
All wish to know; but none the price will pay.
"The price," retorts the scholar, "do you say!
What have I learned?" There go the master's pains,
Because, forsooth, the Arcadian brute lacks brains!
And yet this oaf, every sixth morn, prepares 250
To split my head with Hannibal's affairs,
While he debates at large, "Whether 'twere right
To take advantage of the general fright,
And march to Rome; or, by the storm alarmed,
And all the elements against him armed, 255
The dangerous expedition to delay,
And lead his harassed troops some other way."
--Sick of the theme, which still returns, and still
The exhausted wretch exclaims, Ask what you will,
I'll give it, so you on his sire prevail, 260
To hear, thus oft, the booby's endless tale!
So Vectius speeds: his brethren, wiser far,
Have shut up school, and hurried to the bar.
Adieu the idle fooleries of Greece,
The soporific drug, the golden fleece, 265
The faithless husband, and the abandoned wife,
And Æson, coddled to new light and life,
A long adieu! on more productive themes,
On actual crimes, the sophist now declaims:
Thou too, my friend, would'st thou my counsel hear, 270
Should'st free thyself from this ungrateful care;
Lest all be lost, and thou reduced, poor sage,
To want a tally in thy helpless age!
Bread still the lawyer earns; but tell me yet,
What your Chrysogonus and Pollio get 275