Satire 8
Satire VIII
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? 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?
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, 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, 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, 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; And who, by practicing 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 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; 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, 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, 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, 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 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, 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; 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 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. 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; 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; 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.