Nor be so nice in tafte myself to know
If what I fwallow be a thrush, or no.
Live on thy annual income; fpend thy store;
And freely grind, from thy full threshing-floor;
Next harvest promises as much, or more.
Thus I would live: but friendship's holy band,
And offices of kindness hold my hand:

My friend is fhipwreck'd on the Brutian strand,
His riches in th' Ionian main are loft;

And he himself ftands fhiv'ring on the coaft;
Where, deftitute of help, forlorn and bare,
He wearies the deaf Gods with fruitless pray'r.
Their images, the relicks of the wrack,
Torn from the naked poop, are tided back
By the wild waves, and rudely thrown afhore,
Lie impotent; nor can themselves restore.
The veffel sticks, and fhews her open'd fide,
And on her shatter'd maft the mews in triumph ride.
From thy new hope, and from thy growing store,
Now lend affiftance, and relieve the poor.
Come; do a noble act of charity;

A pittance of thy land will fet 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 fay,
"Tis mine that wealth thou fquander'ft thus away;

What is't to thee, if he neglect thy urn,
Or without fpices lets thy body burn?
If odours to thy ashes he refuse,
Or buys corrupted caffia from the Jews?
All these, the wifer Beftius will reply,
Are empty pomp, and dead-men's 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 unfinew'd Rome.
Our sweating hinds their fallads, now, defile,
Infecting homely herbs with fragrant oil.
But, to thy fortune be not thou a flave:
For what haft thou to fear beyond the grave?
And thou who gap'ft for my eftate, draw near;
For I would whisper fomewhat in thy ear.
Hear'st thou the news, my friend? th' exprefs is

come

With laurell'd letters from the camp to Rome:
Cæfar falutes the queen and fenate thus:
My arms are on the Rhine victorious.
From mourning altars fweep the duft away:
Ceafe fafting, and proclaim a fat thanksgiving day.
The goodly emprefs, jollily inclin'd,

Is to the welcome bearer wond'rous kind;

And, fetting her good housewifry 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 fpoils of kings, and conquer'd camps we boast,
Their arms in trophies hang on the triumphal poft:
Now, for fo many glorious actions done

In foreign parts, and mighty battles won:
For peace at home, and for the public wealth,
I mean to crown a bowl to Cæfar's health:
Befides, in gratitude for fuch high matters,
Know I have vow'd two hundred gladiators.
Say, wouldst thou hinder me from this expence?
I difinherit thee, if thou dar'ft take offence.
Yet more, a public largess I defign

Of oil and pies, to make the people dine:
Controul me not, for fear I change my will.

And yet methinks I hear thee grumbling still,
You give as if you were the Perfian king:
Your land does no fo large revenues bring.
Well; on my terms thou wilt not be my heir
If thou car'ft little, lefs fhall be my care:
Were none of all my father's fifters left;
Nay, were I 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 stay,
Where fortune throws poor Manius in
my way.
Him will I choose: What him, of humble birth,
Obfcure, a foundling, and a fon of earth?
Obfcure? Why pr'ythee what am I? I know
My father, grandfire, and great-grandfire too:
If farther I derive my pedigree,

I can but guefs beyond the fourth degree.
The rest of my forgotten ancestors,

Were fons of earth, like him, or sons of whores.

Yet why wouldst thou, old covetous wretch,

afpire

To be my heir, who might'ft have been my fire?
In nature's race, fhouldst thou demand of me
My torch, when I in course run after thee?
Think I approach thee, like the God of gain,
With wings on head and heels, as poets feign :
Thy mod'rate fortune from my gift receive;
Now fairly take it, or as fairly leave.
But take it as it is, and afk no more.

What, when thou hast embezzel'd all thy store?
Where's all thy father left? 'Tis true, I grant,
Some I have mortgag'd, to fupply my want:

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

Nor tell me, in a dying father's tone,
Be careful still of the main chance, my fon;
Put out thy principal, in trufty hands:

Live on the ufe; and never dip thy lands:

But yet what's left for me? What's left, my friend!

Afk that again, and all the reft I spend.
Is not my fortune at my own command?
Pour oil, and pour it with a plenteous hand,
Upon my fallads, boy: fhall I be fed
With fodden nettles, and a fing'd sow's head?
'Tis holiday; provide me better cheer;
'Tis holiday, and fhall be round the year.
Shall I my houfhold Gods and genius cheat,
To make him rich, who grudges me my meat?
That he may loll at eafe; 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 homefpun cloth be clad, that he
Ilis paunch in triumph may before him see ?