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Whom Massa dreads, Latinus, trembling, plies
With a fair wife, and anxious Carus buys!
When those supplant thee in thy dearest rights, 55
Who earn rich legacies by active nights;
Those, whom (the shortest, surest way to rise)
The widow's itch advances to the skies!--
Not that an equal rank her minions hold;
Just to their various powers, she metes her gold, 60
And Proculeius mourns his scanty share,
While Gillo triumphs, hers and nature's heir!
And let him triumph! 'tis the price of blood:
While, thus defrauded of the generous flood.
The color flies his cheek, as though he prest, 65
With unsuspecting foot, a serpent's crest;
Or stood engaged at Lyons to declaim,
Where the least peril is the loss of fame.
Ye gods!--what rage, what phrensy fires my brain,
When that false guardian, with his splendid train, 70
Crowds the long street, and leaves his orphan charge
To prostitution, and the world at large!
When, by a juggling sentence damned in vain,
(For who, that holds the plunder, heeds the pain?)
Marius to wine devotes his morning hours, 75
And laughs, in exile, at the offended Powers:
While, sighing o'er the victory she won,
The Province finds herself but more undone!
And shall I feel, that crimes like these require
The avenging strains of the Venusian lyre, 80
And not pursue them? I shall I still repeat
The legendary tales of Troy and Crete;
The toils of Hercules, the horses fed
On human flesh by savage Diomed,
The lowing labyrinth, the builder's flight, 85
And the rash boy, hurl'd from his airy height?
When, what the law forbids the wife to heir,
The adulterer's Will may to the wittol bear,
Who gave, with wand'ring eye and vacant face,
A tacit sanction to his own disgrace; 90
And, while at every turn a look he stole,
Snored, unsuspected, o'er the treacherous bowl!
When he presumes to ask a troop's command,
Who spent on horses all his father's land,
While, proud the experienced driver to display, 95
His glowing wheels smoked o'er the Appian way:--
For there our young Automedon first tried
His powers, there loved the rapid car to guide;
While great Pelides sought superior bliss,
And toyed and wantoned with his master-miss. 100
Who would not, reckless of the swarm he meets,
Fill his wide tablets, in the public streets,
With angry verse? when, through the midday glare,
Borne by six slaves, and in an open chair,
The forger comes, who owes this blaze of state 105
To a wet seal and a fictitious date;
Comes, like the soft Mæcenas, lolling by,
And impudently braves the public eye!
Or the rich dame, who stanched her husband's thirst
With generous wine, but--drugged it deeply first! 110
And now, more dext'rous than Locusta, shows
Her country friends the beverage to compose,
And, midst the curses of the indignant throng,
Bear, in broad day, the spotted corpse along.
Dare nobly, man! if greatness be thy aim, 115
And practice what may chains and exile claim:
On Guilt's broad base thy towering fortunes raise,
For virtue starves on--universal praise!
While crimes, in scorn of niggard fate, afford
The ivory couches, and the citron board, 120
The goblet high-embossed, the antique plate,
The lordly mansion, and the fair estate!
O! who can rest--who taste the sweets of life,
When sires debauch the son's too greedy wife;
When males to males, abjuring shame, are wed, 125
And beardless boys pollute the nuptial bed!
No: INDIGNATION, kindling as she views,
Shall, in each breast, a generous warmth infuse,
And pour, in Nature and the Nine's despite,
Such strains as I, or Cluvienus, write! 130
E'er since Deucalion, while, on every side,
The bursting clouds upraised the whelming tide,
Reached, in his little skiff, the forked hill,
And sought, at Themis' shrine, the Immortals' will;
When softening stones grew warm with gradual life, 135
And Pyrrha brought each male a virgin wife;
Whatever, passions have the soul possest,
Whatever wild desires inflamed the breast,
Joy, Sorrow, Fear, Love, Hatred, Transport, Rage,
Shall form the motley subject of my page. 140
And when could Satire boast so fair a field?
Say, when did Vice a richer harvest yield?
When did fell Avarice so engross the mind?
Or when the lust of play so curse mankind?--
No longer, now, the pocket's stores supply 145
The boundless charges of the desperate die:
The chest is staked!--muttering the steward stands,
And scarce resigns it, at his lord's commands.
Is it a SIMPLE MADNESS,--I would know,
To venture countless thousands on a throw, 150
Yet want the soul, a single piece to spare,
To clothe the slave, that shivering stands and bare!
Who called, of old, so many seats his own,
Or on seven sumptuous dishes supped alone?--
Then plain and open was the cheerful feast, 155
And every client was a bidden guest;
Now, at the gate, a paltry largess lies,
And eager hands and tongues dispute the prize.
But first (lest some false claimant should be found),
The wary steward takes his anxious round, 160
And pries in every face; then calls aloud,
"Come forth, ye great Dardanians, from the crowd!"
For, mixed with us, e'en these besiege the door,
And scramble for--the pittance of the poor!
"Dispatch the Prætor first," the master cries, 165
"And next the Tribune." "No, not so;" replies
The Freedman, bustling through, "first come is, still,
First served; and I may claim my right, and will!--
Though born a slave ('tis bootless to deny,
What these bored ears betray to every eye), 170
On my own rents, in splendor, now I live,
On five fair freeholds! Can the PURPLE give
Their Honors, more? when, to Laurentum sped,
NOBLE Corvinus tends a flock for bread!--
Pallas and the Licinii, in estate, 175
Must yield to me: let, then, the Tribunes wait."
Yes, let them wait! thine, Riches, be the field!--
It is not meet, that he to Honor yield,
To SACRED HONOR, who, with whitened feet,
Was hawked for sale, so lately, through the street. 180
O gold! though Rome beholds no altars flame,
No temples rise to thy pernicious name,
Such as to Victory, Virtue, Faith are reared,
And Concord, where the clamorous stork is heard,
Yet is thy full divinity confest, 185
Thy shrine established here, in every breast.
But while, with anxious eyes, the great explore
How much the dole augments their annual store,
What misery must the poor dependent dread,
Whom this small pittance clothed, and lodged, and fed? 190
Wedged in thick ranks before the donor's gates,
A phalanx firm, of chairs and litters, waits:
Thither one husband, at the risk of life,
Hurries his teeming, or his bedrid wife;
Another, practiced in the gainful art, 195
With deeper cunning tops the beggar's part;
Plants at his side a close and empty chair:
"My Galla, master;--give me Galla's share."
"Galla!" the porter cries; "let her look out."
"Sir, she's asleep. Nay, give me;--can you doubt!" 200
What rare pursuits employ the clients' day!
First to the patron's door |