Fortune, that, with malicious joy,
Does man her slave oppress,
Proud of her office to destroy,
Is feldom pleas'd to blefs:
Still various and unconstant ftill,
But with an inclination to be ill,
Promotes, degrades, delights in ftrife,
And makes a lottery of life.
I can enjoy her while she's kind;
But when she dances in the wind,
And shakes the wings and will not stay,
I puff the prostitute away:
The little or the much she gave, is quietly refign'd; Content with poverty, my foul I arm;
And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm,
Who never fail in her unfaithful fea,
If ftorms arife, and clouds grow black;
If the mast split, and threaten wreck?
Then let the greedy merchant fear
For his ill-gotten gain;
And pray to Gods that will not hear,
While the debating winds and billows bear
His wealth into the main.
For me, fecure from fortune's blows,
Secure of what I cannot lofe,
In my small pinnace I can fail,
Contemning all the blustering roar;
And, running with a merry gale,
With friendly ftars my fafety feek
Within fome little winding creek;
And see the storm afhore.
THE SECOND EPODE OF HORACE.
HOW happy in his low degree,
How rich in humble poverty, is he,
Who leads a quiet country life;
Discharg'd of business, void of ftrife,
And from the griping fcrivener free!
Thus, ere the feeds of vice were fown,
Liv'd men in better ages born,
Who plow'd with oxen of their own
Their fmall paternal field of corn.
Nor trumpets fummon him to war,
Nor drums difturb his morning fleep,
Nor knows he merchants' gainful care,
Nor fears the dangers of the deep.
The clamours of contentious law,
And court, and ftate, he wifely fhuns,
Nor, brib'd with hopes, nor dar'd with awe,
To fervile falutations runs;
But either to the clafping vine
Does the fupporting poplar wed, Or with his pruning-hook disjoin
Unbearing branches from their head, And grafts more happy in their stead : Or, climbing to a hilly steep,
He views his herds in vales afar,
Or fheers his overburden'd fheep,
Or mead for cooling drink prepares,
Of virgin honey in the jars.
Or in the now-declining year,
When bounteous autumn rears his head,
He joys to pull the ripen'd pear,
And clustering grapes with purple spread.
The fairest of his fruit he ferves,
Priapus, thy rewards:
Sylvanus too his part deferves,
Whofe care the fences guards.
Sometimes beneath an ancient oak,
Or on the matted grass, he lies;
No God of fleep he need invoke ;
The ftream that o'er the pebbles flies
With gentle flumber crowns his eyes.
The wind that whiftles through the sprays
Maintains the concert of the fong;
And hidden birds with native lays
The golden fleep prolong.
But, when the blafts of winter blows,
And hoary froft inverts the year,
Into the naked woods he goes,
And feeks the tufty boar to rear,
With well-mouth'd hounds and pointed spear!
Or fpreads his fubtle nets from fight
With twinkling glaffes, to betray
The larks that in the meshes light,
Or makes the fearful hare his prey.
Amidft his harmless eafy joys
No anxious care invades his health,
Nor love his peace of mind destroys,
Nor wicked avarice of wealth.
But if a chafte and pleafing wife,
To ease the bufinefs of his life,
Divides with him his houfhold care,
Such as the Sabine matrons were,
Such as the fwift Apulian's bride,
Sun-burnt and fwarthy though she be,
Will fire for winter-nights provide,
And without noife will overfee
His children and his family;
And order all things till he come,
Sweaty and overlabour'd, home;
If fhe in pens his flocks will fold,
And then produce her dairy ftore,
With wine to drive away the cold,
And unbought dainties of the poor;
Not oyfters of the Lucrine lake
My fober appetite would wish,
Nor turbot, or the foreign fish
That rolling tempefts overtake,
And hither waft the coftly dish.
Not heathpout, or the rarer bird,
Which Phafis or Ionia yields,
More pleafing morfels would afford
Than the fat olives of my fields; Than fhards or mallows for the pot,
That keep the loosen'd body found,
Or than the lamb, that falls by lot
To the just guardian of my ground.
Amidst these feafts of happy fwains,
The jolly fhepherd fmiles to fee
His flock returning from the plains;
The farmer is as pleas'd as he
To view his oxen sweating smoke,
Bear on their necks the loofen'd yoke:
To look upon his menial crew,
That fit around his chearful hearth,
And bodies spent in toil renew
With wholesome food and country mirth. This Morecraft said within himself,
Refolv'd to leave the wicked town:
And live retir'd upon
He call'd his money in;
But the prevailing love of pelf, Soon fplit him on the former shelf, He put it out again.
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