|
What’s the advantage, or the real good, |
|
In tracing from the source our ancient blood? |
|
To have our ancestors in paint or stone, |
|
Preserved as relics, or like monsters shown? |
| 5. |
The brave Aemilii, as in triumph placed, |
|
The virtuous Curii, half by time defaced; |
|
Corvinus, with a mouldering nose, that bears |
|
Injurious scars, the sad effects of years; |
|
And Galba, grinning, without nose or ears? |
|
|
| 10. |
Vain are their hopes who fancy to inherit, |
|
By trees of pedigrees, or fame or merit; |
|
Through plodding heralds through each branch may trace |
|
Old captains, and dictators of their race, |
|
While their ill lives that family belie, |
| 15. |
And grieve the brass which stands dishonour'd by. |
|
'Tis mere burlesque, that to our generals' praise, |
|
Their progeny immortal statues raise; |
|
Yet (far from that old gallantry) delight |
|
To game before their images all night, |
| 20. |
And steal to bed at the approach of day, |
|
The hour when these their ensigns did display. |
|
|
|
Why should soft Fabius impudently bear |
|
Names gain’d by conquests in the Gallic war? |
|
Why lays he claim to Hercules’ strain, |
| 25. |
Yet dares be base, effeminate, and vain? |
|
The glorious altar to that hero built |
|
Adds but a greater lustre to his guilt |
|
Whose tender limbs and polish’d skin disgrace |
|
The grisly beauty of his manly race; |
| 30. |
And who, by practising the dismal skill |
|
Of poisoning, and such treacherous ways to kill, |
|
Makes his unhappy kindred marble sweat, |
|
When his degenerate head by theirs is set. |
|
|
|
Long galleries of ancestors, and all |
| 35. |
The follies which ill grace a country hall, |
|
Challenge no wonder or esteem from me; |
|
‘Virtue alone is true nobility.’ |
|
Live therefore well: to men and gods appear |
|
Such as good Paulus, Cossus, Drusus, were; |
| 40. |
And in thy consular triumphal show, |
|
Let these before thy father's statues go: |
|
Place them before the ensigns of the state, |
|
As choosing rather to be good than great. |
|
Convince the world that you're devout and true, |
| 45. |
Be just in all you say, and all you do; |
|
Whatever be your birth, you're sure to be |
|
A peer of the first magnitude to me: |
|
Rome for your sake shall push her conquests on, |
|
And bring new titles home from nations won, |
| 50 |
To dignify so eminent a son. |
|
With your bless'd name shall every region sound, |
|
Loud as mad Egypt, when her priests have found |
|
A new Osiris, for the ox they drown'd. |
|
|
|
But who will call those noble who deface, |
| 55. |
By meaner acts, the glories of their race? |
|
Whose only title to our fathers' fame |
|
Is couch'd in the dead letters of their name? |
|
A dwarf as well may for a giant pass; |
|
A negro for a swan; a crook-back’d lass |
| 60. |
Be call'd Europa; and a cur may bear |
|
The name of tiger, lion, or whatever |
|
Denotes the noblest or the fiercest beast: |
|
Be therefore careful, lest the world in jest |
|
Should thee just so with the mock-titles greet, |
| 65. |
Of Camerinus, or of conquer’d Crete. |
|
‘To whom is this advice and censure due?’ |
|
Rubellius Plancus, 'tis applied to you: |
|
Who think your person second to divine, |
|
Because descended from the Drusian line; |
| 70. |
Though yet you no illustrious act have done, |
|
To make the world distinguish Julia's son |
|
From the vile offspring of a trull, who sits |
|
By the town wall, and for her living knits. |
|
‘You are poor rogues (you cry), the baser scum |
| 75. |
And inconsiderable dregs of Rome; |
|
Who know not from what corner of the earth |
|
The obscure wretch who got you stole his birth: |
|
Mine I derive from Cecrops.’--May your grace |
|
Live and enjoy the splendour of your race. |
| 80. |
Yet of these base plebeians we have known |
|
Some, who, by charming eloquence, have grown |
|
Great senators, and honours to that gown: |
|
Some at the bar with subtilty defend |
|
The cause of an unlearned noble friend; |
| 85. |
Or on the bench the knotty laws untie; |
|
Others their stronger youth to arms apply, |
|
Go to Euphrates, or those forces join |
|
Which garrison the conquests near the Rhine. |
|
While you, Rubellius, on your birth rely; |
| 90. |
Though you resemble your great family |
|
No more than those rough statues on the road |
|
(Which we call Mercuries) are like that god: |
|
Your blockhead though excels in this alone, |
|
You are a living statue--that of stone. |
|
|
|
Great son of Troy! who ever praised a beast |
|
For being of a race above the rest, |
|
But rather meant his courage and his force? |
|
To give an instance: we commend a horse |
|
(Without regard of pasture or of breed) |
|
For his undaunted mettle and his speed; |
|
Who wins most plates with greatest ease, and first |
|
Prints with his hoofs his conquest on the dust. |
|
But if fleet Dragon's progeny at last |
|
Proves jaded, and in frequent matches cast, |
|
No favour for the stallion we retain, |
|
And no respect for the degenerate strain; |
|
The worthless brute is from Newmarket brought, |
|
And at an underrate in Smithfield brought, |
|
To turn a mill, or drag a loaded life, |
|
Beneath two panniers and a baker's wife. |
|
|
|
That we may therefore you, not yours, admire; |
|
First, sir, some honour of your own acquire; |
|
Add to that stock which justly we bestow |
|
Oil those bless'd shades to whom you all things owe. |
|
|
|
This may suffice the haughty youth to shame, |
|
Whose swelling veins (if we may credit Fame) |
|
Burst almost with the vanity and pride, |
|
That their rich blood to Nero's is allied: |
|
The rumour's likely; for ‘We seldom find |
|
Much sense with an exalted fortune join’d.’ |
|
|
|
But, Ponticus, I would not you should raise |
|
Your credit by hereditary praise; |
|
Let your own acts immortalize your name; |
|
‘ 'Tis poor relying on another's fame;’ |
|
For take the pillars but away, and all |
|
The superstructure must in ruins fall; |
|
As a vine droops, when by divorce removed |
|
From the embraces of the elm she loved. |
|
|
|
Be a good soldier, or upright trustee, |
|
An arbitrator from corruption free; |
|
And if a witness in a doubtful cause, |
|
Where a bribed judge means to elude the laws, |
|
Though Phalaris’ brazen bull were there, |
|
And he would dictate what he'd have you swear, |
|
Be not so profligate, but rather choose |
|
To guard your honour, and your life to lose, |
|
Rather than let your virtue be betray'd; |
|
Virtue, the noblest cause for which you're made. |
|
|
|
Improperly we measure life by breath, |
|
Such do not truly live who merit death; |
|
Though they their wanton senses nicely please |
|
With all the charms of luxury and ease; |
|
Though mingled flowers adorn their careless brow, |
|
And round them costly sweets neglected flow, |
|
As if they in their funeral state were laid; |
|
And to the world, as they're to virtue, dead. |
|
When you the province you expect obtain, |
|
From passion and from avarice refrain; |
|
Let our associates’ poverty provoke |
|
Thy generous heart not to increase their yoke, |
|
Since riches cannot rescue from the grave, |
|
Which claims alike the monarch and the slave. |
|
|
|
To what the laws enjoin submission pay; |
|
And what the senate shall command obey; |
|
Think what rewards upon the good attend, |
|
And how those fall unpitied who offend: |
|
Tutor and Capito may warnings be, |
|
Who felt the thunder of the state's decree, |
|
For robbing the Cilicians, though they |
|
(Like lesser pikes) only subsist on prey. |
|
But what avails the rigour of their doom, |
|
Which cannot future violence o'ercome, |
|
Nor give the miserable province ease? |
|
Since what one plunderer left, the next will seize. |
|
|
|
Cherippus then in time yourself bethink, |
|
And what your rags will yield by auction, sink; |
|
Ne'er put yourself to charges to complain |
|
Of wrongs which heretofore you did sustain; |
|
Make not a voyage to detect the theft; |
|
'Tis mad to lavish what their rapine left. |
|
|
|
When Rome at first our rich allies subdued, |
|
From gentle taxes noble spoils accrued; |
|
Each wealthy province, but in part oppress'd, |
|
Thought the loss trivial, and enjoy'd the rest. |
|
All treasuries did then with heaps abound; |
|
In every wardrobe costly silks were found; |
|
The least apartment of the meanest house |
|
Could all the wealthy pride of art produce; |
|
Pictures which from Parrhasius did receive |
|
Motion and warmth; and statues taught to live; |
|
Some Polyclete's, some Myron's work declared; |
|
In others Phidias’ masterpiece appear'd; |
|
And crowding plate did on the cupboard stand, |
|
Emboss'd by curious Mentor’s artful hand. |
|
Prizes like these oppressors might invite, |
|
These Dolabella’s rapine did excite, |
|
These Anthony for his own theft thought fit, |
|
Verres for these did sacrilege commit; |
|
And when their reigns were ended, ships full fraught |
|
The hidden fruits of their exaction brought, |
|
Which made in peace a treasure richer far |
|
Than what is plunder’d in the rage of war. |
|
|
|
This was of old: but our confederates now |
|
Have nothing left but oxen for the plough, |
|
Or some few mares reserved alone for breed: |
|
Yet lest this provident design succeed, |
|
They drive the father of the herd away, |
|
Making both stallion and his pasture prey. |
|
Their rapine is so abject and profane, |
|
They nor from trifles, nor from gods refrain; |
|
But the poor Lares from the niches seize, |
|
If they be little images that please. |
|
Such are the spoils which now provoke their theft, |
|
And are the greatest; nay, they're all that’s left. |
|
|
|
Thus may you Corinth, or weak Rhodes, oppress, |
|
Who dare not bravely what they feel redress |
|
(For how can fops thy tyranny control, |
|
Smooth limbs are symptoms of a servile soul): |
|
But trespass not too far oft on sturdy Spain, |
|
Sclavonia, France ; thy gripes from those restrain, |
|
Who with their sweat Rome’s luxury maintain, |
|
And send us plenty, while our wanton day |
|
Is lavish'd at the Circus, or the play. |
|
For should you to extortion be inclined, |
|
Your cruel guilt will little booty find, |
|
Since gleaning Marius has already seized |
|
All that from that sunburnt Afric can be squeezed. |
|
|
|
But above all, ‘Be careful to withold |
|
Your talons from the wretched and the bold; |
|
Tempt not the brave and needy to despair; |
|
For, though your violence should leave them bare |
|
Of gold and silver, swords and darts remain, |
|
And will revenge the wrongs which they sustain: |
|
The plunder'd still have arms.-- |
|
|
|
Think not the precept I have here laid down |
|
A fond uncertain notion of try own; |
|
No, ‘tis a Sibyl's leaf what I relate, |
|
As fix’d and sure as the decrees of fate. |
|
|
|
Let none but men of honour you attend, |
|
Choose him that has most virtue for your friend; |
|
And give no way to any darling youth |
|
To sell your favour, and pervert the truth. |
|
Reclaim you wife from strolling up and down, |
|
To all assizes, and through every town, |
|
With claws like harpies, eager for the prey |
|
(For which your justice and your fame will pay). |
|
Keep yourself free from scandals such as these; |
|
Then trace your birth from Picus, if you please. |
|
If he's too modern, and your pride aspire |
|
To seek the author of your being higher, |
|
Choose any Titan who the gods withstood, |
|
To be the founder of your ancient blood, |
|
Prometheus, and that race before the flood; |
|
Or any other story you can find |
|
From heralds, or in poets, to your mind. |
|
|
|
But should you prove ambitious, lustful, vain; |
|
Or could you see, with pleasure and disdain, |
|
Rods broke on our associates' bleeding backs, |
|
And headsmen labouring till they blunt their axe; |
|
Your father's glory will your sin proclaim, |
|
And to a clearer light expose your shame; |
|
For, still more public scandal vice extends, |
|
As he is great and noble who offends. |
|
|
|
How dare you then your high extraction plead? |
|
Yet blush not when you go to forge a deed, |
|
In the same temple which your grandsire built; |
|
Making his statue privy to the guilt. |
|
Or in a bawdy masquerade are led, |
|
Muffled by night, to some polluted bed. |
|
Fat Lateranus does his revels keep, |
|
Where his forefathers' peaceful ashes sleep; |
|
Driving himself a chariot down the hill, |
|
And (though a consul) links himself the wheel: |
|
To do him justice, 'tis indeed by night, |
|
Yet the moon sees, and every smaller light |
|
Pries as a witness of the shameful sight. |
|
Nay, when his year of honour's ended, soon |
|
He'll leave that nicety, and mount at noon: |
|
Nor blush should he some grave acquaintance meet, |
|
But (proud of being known) will jerk and greet: |
|
And when his fellow beasts are weary grown, |
|
He'll play the groom, give oats, and rub them down. |
|
If after Numa's ceremonial way |
|
He at Jove's altar would a victim slay, |
|
To no clean goddess he directs his prayers, |
|
But by Hippona most devoutly swears; |
|
Or some rank deity, whose filthy face |
|
We suitably o'er stinking stables place. |
|
|
|
When he has run his length, and does begin |
|
To steer his course directly for the inn |
|
(Where they might have watch’d, expecting him all night), |
|
A greasy Syrian, ere he can alight, |
|
Presents him essence; while his courteous host |
|
(Well knowing nothing by good breeding's lost) |
|
Tags every sentence with some fawning word, |
|
Such as, ‘My king, my prince,’ at least ‘My lord;’ |
|
And a tight maid, ere he for wine can ask, |
|
Guesses his meaning, and unoils the flask. |
|
|
|
Some (friends to vice) industriously defend |
|
These innocent diversions, and pretend |
|
That I the tricks of youth too roughly blame, |
|
Alleging that when young we did the same. |
|
I grant we did; yet when that age was pass'd, |
|
The frolic humour did no longer last; |
|
We did not cherish and indulge the crime: |
|
What's foul in acting should be left in time. |
|
‘Tis true, some faults, of course, with childhood end; |
|
We therefore wink at wags when they offend, |
|
And spare the boy, in hopes the man may mend. |
|
|
|
But Lateranus (now his vigorous age |
|
Should prompt him for his country to engage, |
|
The circuit, of our empire to extend, |
|
And all our lives, in Caesar’s, to defend), |
|
Mature in riots, places his delight |
|
All day in plying bumpers, and at night |
|
Reels to the bawds, over whose doors are set |
|
Pictures and bills with ‘Here are whores to let.’ |
|
Should any desperate unexpected fate |
|
Summon all heads and hands to guard the state, |
|
Caesar, send quickly to secure the port; |
|
‘But where's the general? Where does he resort?’ |
|
Send to the sutler's; there you're sure to find |
|
The bully match'd with rascals of his kind, |
|
Quacks, coffin makers, fugitives, and sailors; |
|
Rooks, common soldiers, hangmen, thieves, and tailors; |
|
With Cybele's priests, who, wearied with processions, |
|
Drink there, and sleep with knaves of all professions, |
|
A friendly gang! each equal to the best; |
|
And all, who can, have liberty to jest: |
|
One flaggon walks the round (that none should think |
|
They either change, or stint him of his drink), |
|
And lest exceptions may for place be found, |
|
Their stools are all alike, their table round. |
|
|
|
What think you, Ponticus, yourself might do, |
|
Should any slave, so lewd, belong to you? |
|
No doubt, you'd send the rogue in fetters bound |
|
To work in Bridewell, or to plough your ground: |
|
But, nobles, you who trace your birth from Troy, |
|
Think, you the great prerogative enjoy |
|
Of doing ill, by virtue of that race; |
|
As if what we esteem in cobblers base |
|
Would the high family of Brutus grace. |
|
|
|
Shameful are these examples; yet we find |
|
(To Rome's disgrace) far worse than these behind: |
|
Poor Damasippus, whom we once have known |
|
Fluttering with coach and six about the town, |
|
Is forced to make the stage his last retreat, |
|
And pawns, his voice, the all he has, for meat: |
|
For now he must (since his estate is lost) |
|
Or represent, or be himself, a ghost: |
|
And Lentulus acts hanging with such art, |
|
Were I a judge, he should not feign the part. |
|
Nor would I their vile insolence acquit, |
|
Who can with patience, nay diversion, sit, |
|
Applauding my lord's buffoonery for wit. |
|
And clapping farces acted by the court, |
|
While the peers cuff, to make the rabble sport: |
|
Or hirelings, at a prize, their fortunes try; |
|
Certain to fall unpitied if they die; |
|
Since none can have the favourable thought, |
|
That to obey a tyrant's will they fought, |
|
But that their lives they willingly expose, |
|
Brought by the praetors to adorn their shows. |
|
|
|
Yet say the stage and lists were both in sight, |
|
And you must either choose to act or fight; |
|
Death never sure bears such a ghastly shape, |
|
That a rank coward basely would escape |
|
By playing a foul harlot's jealous tool, |
|
Or a feign'd Andrew to a real fool. |
|
Yet a peer actor is no monstrous thing, |
|
Since Rome has own'd a fiddler for a king: |
|
After such pranks, the world itself at best |
|
May be imagined nothing but a jest. |
|
|
|
Go to the lists where feats of arms are shown, |
|
There you'll find Gracchus, (from Patrician grown) |
|
A fencer, and the scandal of the town. |
|
Nor will he the Mirmillo's weapons bear, |
|
The modest helmet he disdains to wear; |
|
As Retiarius he attacks his foe: |
|
First waves his trident ready for the throw, |
|
Next casts his net, but neither level'd right, |
|
He stares about, exposed to public sight, |
|
Then places all his safety in his flight. |
|
‘Room for the noble gladiator! See, |
|
His coat and hatband show his quality:’-- |
|
Thus when at last the brave Mirmillo knew |
|
'Twas Gracchus was the wretch he did pursue, |
|
To conquer such a coward grieved him more |
|
Than if he many glorious wounds had bore. |
|
|
|
Had we the freedom to express our mind, |
|
There's not a wretch so much to vice inclined, |
|
But will own Seneca did far excel |
|
His pupil, by whose tyranny he fell: |
|
To expiate whose complicated guilt, |
|
With some proportion to the blood he spilt, |
|
Rome should more serpents, apes, and sacks provide |
|
Than one, for the compendious parricide. |
|
'Tis true Orestes a like crime did act; |
|
Yet weigh the cause, there's difference in the fact: |
|
He slew his mother at the gods' command |
|
They bid him strike, and did direct his hand |
|
To punish falsehood, and appease the ghost |
|
Of his poor father treacherously lost, |
|
Just in the minute when the flowing bowl |
|
With a full tide enlarged his cheerful soul. |
|
Yet kill'd he not his sister, or his wife, |
|
Nor aim'd at any near relation's life: |
|
Orestes, in the heat of all his rage, |
|
Ne’er play'd or sung upon a public stage; |
|
Never on verse did his wild thoughts employ, |
|
To paint the horrid scene of burning Troy, |
|
Like Nero, who to raise his fancy higher, |
|
And finish the great work, set Rome on fire. |
|
Such crimes make treason just, and might compel |
|
Virginius, Vindex, Galba, to rebel: |
|
For what could Nero's self have acted worse |
|
To aggravate the wretched nation’s curse? |
|
|
|
These are the bless'd endowments, studies, arts, |
|
Which exercise our mighty emperor's parts: |
|
Such frolics with his roving genius suit, |
|
On foreign theaters to prostitute |
|
His voice and honour, for the poor renown |
|
Of putting all the Grecian actors down, |
|
And winning at a wake their parsley-crown. |
|
Let this triumphal chaplet find some place |
|
Among the other trophies of thy race; |
|
By thee Domitii's statues shall be laid, |
|
The habit and the mask in which you play'd |
|
Antigone’s or bold Thyestes' part, |
|
(While your wild nature little wanted art); |
|
And on the marble pillar shall be hung |
|
The lute to which the royal madman sung. |
|
|
|
Who, Catiline, can boast a nobler line |
|
Than thy lewd friend Cethegus's and thine? |
|
Yet you took arms, and did by night conspire |
|
To set our houses and our gods, on fire |
|
(An enterprise which might indeed become |
|
Our enemies the Gauls, not sons of Rome; |
|
To recompense whose barbarous intent, |
|
Pitch'd shirts would be too mild a punishment) |
|
But Cicero, our wise consul, watch'd the blow, |
|
With care discover'd, and disarm'd the foe: |
|
Cicero, the humble mushroom, scarcely known, |
|
The lowly native of a country town |
|
(Who, till of late, could never reach the height |
|
Of being honour’d as a Roman knight), |
|
Throughout the trembling city placed a guard, |
|
Dealing an equal share to every ward; |
|
And by the peaceful robe got more renown |
|
Within our walls than young Octavius won |
|
By victories at Actium, or the plain |
|
Of Thessaly, discolour’d by the slain: |
|
Him, therefore, Rome in gratitude decreed |
|
The father of his country, which he freed. |
|
|
|
Marius (another consul we admire), |
|
In the same village born, first plough’d for hire; |
|
His next advance was to the soldier’s trade, |
|
Where, if he did not nimbly ply the spade, |
|
His surly officer ne’er fail’d to crack |
|
His knotty cudgel on his tougher back. |
|
Yet he alone secured the tottering state, |
|
Withstood the Cimbrians, and redeem’d our fate: |
|
So when the eagles to their quarry flew |
|
(Who never such a goodly banquet knew), |
|
Only a second laurel did adorn |
|
His colleague Catulus, though nobly born; |
|
He shared the pride of the triumphal bay, |
|
But Marius won the glory of the day. |
|
|
|
From a mean stock the pious Decii came; |
|
Small their estates, and vulgar was their name: |
|
Yet such their virtues, that their loss alone |
|
For Rome and all our legions did atone; |
|
Their country’s doom they by their own retrieved; |
|
Themselves more worth than all the host they saved. |
|
The last good king who willing Rome obey’d, |
|
Was the poor offspring of a captive maid; |
|
Yet he those robes of empire justly bore |
|
Which Romulus, our sacred founder, wore: |
|
Nicely he gain’d, and well possess’d the throne, |
|
Nor for his father’s merit, but his own; |
|
And reign’d, himself a family alone. |
|
|
|
When Tarquin, his proud successor, was quell’d, |
|
And with him lust and tyranny expell’d; |
|
The consul’s sons (who for their country’s good, |
|
And to enhance the honour of their blood, |
|
Should have asserted what their father won; |
|
And, to confirm that liberty, have done |
|
Actions, which Cocles might have wish’d his own; |
|
What might to Mutius wonderful appear: |
|
And what bold Clelia might with envy hear) |
|
Open’d the gates, endeavouring to restore |
|
Their banish’d king, and arbitrary power: |
|
Whilst a poor slave, with scarce a name, betray’d |
|
The horrid ills these well born rogues had laid; |
|
Who, therefore, for their treason justly bore |
|
The rods and axe, ne’er used in Rome before. |
|
|
|
If you have strength Achilles’ arms to bear, |
|
And courage to sustain a ten years’ war; |
|
Though foul Thersites got thee, thou shalt be |
|
More loved by all, and more esteem’d by me, |
|
Than if by chance you from some hero came, |
|
In nothing like your father but his name. |
|
|
|
Boast then your blood, and your long lineage stretch |
|
As high as Rome, and its great founders reach: |
|
You’ll find, in these hereditary tales, |
|
Your ancestors the scum of broken gaols; |
|
And Romulus, your honour’s ancient source, |
|
But a poor shepherd’s boy, or something worse. |
