Sidor som bilder

Where, destitute of help, forlorn and bare,
He wearies the deaf Gods with fruitless

Their images, the relicts of the wreck,
Torn from the naked poop, are tided back
By the wild waves, and, rudely thrown afhore,
Lie impotent; nor can themselves restore.
The vessel iticks, and shews her open'd fide,
And on her shatter'd mast the mews in triumph ride.
From thy new hope, and from thy growing store,
Now lend affistance, and relieve the poor.
Come ; do a noble act of charity;
A pittance of thy land will set him free.
Let him not bear the badges of a wreck,
Nor beg with a blue table on his back :
Nor tell me that thy frowning heir will say,
Tis mine that wealth thou squander'st thus away ;
What is 't' to thee, if he neglect thy urn,
Or without fpices lets thy body burn?
If odours to thy athes he refuse,
Or buys corrupted cassia from the Jews ?
All these, the wiser Bestius will reply,
Are empty pomps and dead-mens luxury:
We never knew this vain expence, before
Th'effeminated Grecians brought it o’er:
Now toys and trifles from their Athens come;
And dates and pepper have unfinewid Rome.
Our sweating hinds their fallads, now, defile,
Infecting homely herbs with fragrant oil.
But to thy fortune be not thou a slave :
r what halt thou to fear beyond the grave ?


And thou who gap'st for my estate, draw near ;
For I would whisper somewhat in thy ear.
Hear'st thou the news, my friend ? th’express is come
With laureld letters from the camp to Rome :
Cæsar falutes the queen and senate thus:
My arms are on the Rhine victorious.
From mourning altars sweep tie duft

away :
Ccafe fafting, and proclaim 1. hanksgiving-day.
The goodly empress, jollily illud,
Is to the welcome bearer wondrous kind :
And, setting her good housewifery afide,
Prepares for all the pageantry of pride.
The captive Germans, of gigantic fize,
Are rank'd in order, and are clad in frize :
The spoils of kings and conquer'd camps we boast,
Their arms in trophies hang on the triumphal post.

Now, for so many glorious actions done
In foreign parts, and mighty battles won :
For peace at home, and for the public wealtli,
I mean to crown a bowl to Cæsar's health :
Besides, in gratitude for such high matters,
Know I have vow'd two hundred gladiators.
Say, would'st thou hinder me from this expence;
I disinherit thee, if thou dar'ít take offence.
Yet more, a public largess I design
Of oil and pies, to make the people dine :
Control me not, for fear I change my will.

And yet methinks I hear thee grumbling still,
You give as if you were the Persian king :
Your land does not so large revenues bring.



Well; on my terms thou wilt not be


heir ?
If thou car'st little, less shall be my care :
Were none of all my father's sisters left :
Nay, were 1 of my mother's kin bereft:
None by an uncle's or a grandame's fide,
Yet I could fome adopted heir provide.
I need but take my journey half a day
From haughty Rome, and at Aricia ftay,
Where Fortune throws poor Manius in my way.
Him will I choose : What! him of humble birth,
Obscure, a foundling, and a son of earth?
Obfcure? Why pr’ythee what am I? I know
My father, grandfire, and great-grandfire too.
If father I derive my pedigree,
I can but guess beyond the fourth degree.
The rest of my forgotten ancestors
Were fons of earth, like him, or sons of whores.
Yet, why would'st thou, old covetous wretch,

To be my heir, who might'it have been my fire ?
In Nature's race, should'ít thou demand of me
My torch, when I in course fun after thee ?
Think I approach thee, like the God of gain,
With wings on head and heels, as poets feign :
Thy moderate fortune from my gift receive ;
Now fairly take it, or as fairly leave.
But take it as it is, and alk no more.
What, when thou hast embezzled all thy store ?
Where 's all thy father left ? 'Tis true, I grant,
I have mortgag’d, to fupply my want :


The legacies of Tadius too are flown ;
All spent, and on the self-fame errand gone.
How little then to my poor share will fall!
Little indeed; but yet that little's all.

Nor tell me, in a dying father's tone,
Be careful ftill of the main chance, my fon;
Put out thy principal in trusty hands:
Live on the use; and never dip thy lands :

what's left for me? What 's left, my friend!
Ask that again, and all the rest I spend.
Is not my fortiines at my own command ?
Pour oil, and pour it with a plenteous hand,
Upon my sallads, boy: shall I be fed
With sodden nettles, and a fing’d sow's head ?
'Tis holiday ; provide me better cheer;
'Tis holiday, and Mall be round the year.
Shall I my houshold gods and genius cheat,
To make him rich, who grudges me my meat ?
That he may loll at ease; and, pamper’d high,
When I am laid, may feed on giblet-pie ?
And, when his throbbing luft extends the vein,
Have wherewithal his whores to entertain ?
Shall I in homespun cloth be clad, that lie
His paunch in triumph may before him fee?

Go, miser, go; for lucre fell thy soul ; Truck wares for wares, and trudge from pole to

pole: That men may say, when thou art dead and gone, See what a vast eftate he left his son!





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