Argument of the First Satyr.

Ineed not repeat, that the chief Aim of the Author is against bad Poets, in this Satyr. But I must add, that he includes alfo bad Orators, who began at that Time, (as Petronius in the beginning of his Book tells us,)to enervate Manly Eloquence, by Tropes and Figures, ill plac'd and worse apply'd. Amongst the Poets, Perfius covertly ftrikes at Nero; fome of whofe Verfes he recites with Scorn and Indignation. He also takes notice of the Noblemen and their abominable Poetry, who in the Luxury of their Fortune, fet up for Wits and Judges. The Satyr is in Dialogue, betwixt the Author and bis Friend or Monitor; who diffuades him from this dangerous Attempt of expofing Great Men. But Perfius, who is of a free Spirit, and has not forgotten that Rome vas once a Commonwealth, breaks through all those Difficulties, and boldly arraigns the false Judgment of the Age in which he lives. The Reader may obServe that our Poet was a Stoick Philofopher; and that all his Moral Sentences, both here, and in all the rest of his Satyrs, are drawn from the Dogma's of that Sect.

The First SARY R. In Dialogue betwixt the Poet and his Friend or Monitor:

PERSIUS.

OW anxious are our Cares; and yet how vain
The bent of our Defires!

H°

For none will read thy Satyrs.

Friend. Thy Sp een contain:

Perfius.

Perfius. This to me?

Friend. None; or what's next to none, but two or thres. Tis hard, I grant.

Perfius. 'Tis nothing; I can bear

That paltry Scriblers have the Publick Ear:

That this vaft univerfal Fool, the Town,

Shou'd cry up1 Labeo's Stuff, and cry me down. They damn themselves; nor will my Muse descend To clap with fuch, who Fools and Knaves commend: .Their Smiles and Cenfures are to me the fame: I care not what they praise, or what they blame. In full Affemblies let the Crowd prevail :

Somewhat I wou'd fay,

I weigh no Merit by the common Scale.
The Confcience is the Teft of ev'ry Mind;
Seek not thy felf, without thy felf, to find.
But where's that Roman? -
But fear; -- Let Fear, for once, to Truth give way.
Truth lends the Stoick Courage: When I look
On Human Acts, and read in Nature's Book,
From the firft Paftimes of our Infant Age,
To elder Cares, and Man's feverer Page;
When ftern as Tutors, and as Uncles hard,
We lafh the Pupil, and defraud the Ward:
Then, then I fay, ---- or wou'd say, if I durft -----
But thus provok'd, I must speak out, or burst.
"Friend. Once more forbear.

Perfius. I cannot rule my Spleen;

My Scorn rebels, and tickles me within.
First, to begin at home; our Authors write
In lonely Rooms, fecur'd from publick fight;

1 Nothing is remaining of Atticus Labeo, (fo he is call'd by the Learned Cafaubon.) Nor is he mention'd by any other Foet befides Perkins: Cafaubon,

7

from an old Commentator on Perfius, fays, that he made a very foolish Translation of Hemer's Iliad.

Whether

Whether in Profe, or Verse, 'tis all the same:
The Profe is Fuftian, and the Numbers lame.
All Noife, and empty Pomp, a Storm of Words,
Lab'ring with Sound, that little Senfe affords.
They 2 Comb, and then they order ev'ry Hair:
A Gown, or white, or fcour'd to whitenefs, wear:
A Birth-day Jewel bobbing at their Ear.

Next, gargle well their Throats, and thus prepar'd,
They mount, a God's Name, to be seen and heard.
From their high Scaffold; with a Trumpet Cheek:
And ogling all their Audience ere they speak.
The naufeous Nobles, ev'n the Chief of Rome,
With gaping Mouths to thefe Rehearsals come,
And pant with Pleasure, when some lufty Line
The Marrow pierces, and invades the Chine.
At open fulfom Bawdry they rejoice,
And flimy Jefts applaud with broken Voice.
Base Prostitute, thus deft thou gain thy Bread?
Thus doft thou feed their Ears, and thus art fed?
At his own filthy Stuff he grins and brays:
And gives the Sign where he expects their Praise.
Why have I Learn'd, fay'ft thou, if thus confin'd,
I choke the Noble Vigour of my Mind;

Know, my wild 3 Fig-Tree, which in Rocks is bred,
Will split the Quarry, and fnoot out the Head.
Fine Fruits of Learning! Old ambitious Fool,
Dar'st thou apply that Adage of the School;

2 He defcribes a Poet preparing himself to Rehearfe his Works in publick; which was commonly perform'd in Auguft. A Room was hir'd er lent by fome Friend; a Scaffold was rais'd, and a Pulpit plac'd for him, who was to hold forth; who borrow'd a

}

new Gown, or fcour'd his old one; and adorn'd his Ears with Jewels, &c.

3 Trees of that kind grow wild in many parts of Italy; aud make their way through Rocks: Sometimes splitting the Tomb-ftones,

As

As if 'tis nothing worth that lies conceal'd:
And Science is not Science 'till Reveal'd?

Oh, but 'tis brave to be admir'd, to fee

The Crowd, with pointing Fingers, cry, That's he:
That's he whofe wondrous Poem is become

A Lecture for the Noble Youth of Rome!
Who, by their Fathers, is at Feasts Renown'd;
And often quoted when the Bowls go round.
Full gorg'd and flufh'd, they wantonly rehearse;
And add to Wine the Luxury of Verse.
One, clad in Purple, not to lose his Time,
Eats and recites fome lamentable Rhime:
Some fenfeless Phillis, in a broken Note,
Snuffling at Nofe, or croaking in his Throat:
Then, graciously, the mellow Audience Nod:
Is not th' Immortal Author made a God?
Are not his Manes bleft, fuch Praise to have?
Lies not the Turf more lightly on his Grave?
And Rofes (while his loud Applaufe they fing,)
Stand ready from his Sepulcher to spring?

All thefe, you cry, but light Ohjections are;
Meer Malice, and you drive the Jest too far.
For does there breathe a Man, who can reject
A gen'ral Fame, and his own Lines neglect ?
In 4 Cedar Tablets worthy to appear,
That need not Fish, or Frankincenfe to fear?
Thou, whom I make the adverse part to bear,
Be answer'd thus: If I, by chance, fucceed
In what I write (and that's a chance indeed;)
Know, I am not fo ftupid, or fo hard,
Not to feel Praife, or Fame's deferv'd Reward:

But this I cannot grant, that thy Applaufe
Is my Work's ultimate, or only Cause.
Prudence can ne'er propose so mean a Prize;
For mark what Vanity within it lies.

Like Labeo's Iliads; in whofe Verfe is found
Nothing but trifling Care, and empty Sound:
Such little Elegies as Nobles write,

Who wou'd be Poets, in Apollo's spight.

Them and their woful Works the Mufe defies:
Products of Citron Beds, and Golden Canopies.
To give thee all thy due, thou haft the Heart
To make a Supper, with a fine Deffert;

ह

And to thy thread-bare Friend, a caft old Sute impart.
Thus brib'd, thou thus befpeak'ft him, Tell me Friend,
(For I love Truth, nor can plain Speech offend,)
What fays the World of me and of my Muse?
The Poor dare nothing tell but flatt'ring News:
But fhall I fpeak? Thy Verfe is wretched Rhime;
And all thy Labours are but lofs of Time.
Thy ftrutting Belly fwells, thy Paunch is high;
Thou Writ'st not, but thou Piffeft Poetry.

All Authors, to their own Defects, are blind;
Hadft thou but, Fanus like, a Face behind,
To fee the People, what fplay-Mouths they make;
To mark their Fingers, pointed at thy Back:
Their Tongues loll'd out, a foot beyond the pitch,
When most a-thirst, of an Apulian Bitch:

5. Writings of Noblemen, | his Name, the first
whofe Bedsteads were of the the Year is cali'd y
Wood of Citron.
was Pictur'd with
one before, and o
as regarding the tim
the future. Some of
thologifts think he
for the Reason given

6 Janus was the firft King of Italy; who refug'd Saturn, when he was expell'd by his Son Jupiter from Crte; (or as we now call it Candia.) From