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Against bold Turnus the great Trojan arm,
Amidst their strokes the poet gets no harm:

may in epique verse be lain,
And none of all his myrmidons complain:
Hylas may drop his pitcher, none will cry:
Not if he drown himself for

company :
But when Lucilius brandishes his pen,
And flashes in the face of guilty men,
A cold sweat stands in drops on ev'ry part;
And rage fucceeds to tears, revenge to smart:
Muse; be advis’d; 'tis past consid’ring time,
When enter'd once the dang’rous lists of rhime:
Since none the living villains dare implead,
Arraign them in the persons of the dead,

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The story of this fatire speaks itself. Umbritius, the Supposed friend of Juvenal, and himself a poet, is leaving Rome, and retiring to Cume. thor accompanies him out of town. Before they take leave of each other, Umbritius tells his friend the reasons which oblige him to lead a private life, in an obscure place. He complains that an honest man cannot get bis bread at Rome. That none but flatterers make their fortunes there : that Grecians and other foreigners raise themfelves by those fordid arts which he describes, and against which he bitterly inveighs. He reckons up the several inconveniencies which arise from a city life; and the many dangers which attend it. Upbraids the noblemen witb covetousness, for not rewarding good poets; and arraigns the government for starving them. The great art of this satire is particularly shown, in common places ; and drawing in as many vices, as could naturally fall into the compass of it.

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Riev'd tho I am an ancient friend to lose,

I like the solitary seat he chose :
In quiet Cumæ fixing his repose :
Where, far from noisy Rome secure he lives,
And one more citizen to Sybil gives.
The road to Bajæ, and that soft recess
Which all the Gods with all their bounty bless.
Tho I in Prochyta with greater ease
Could live, than in a street of palaces.
What scene so desert, or so full of fright,
As tow'ring houses tumbling in the night,
And Rome on fire beheld by its own blazing light?
But worse than all the clatt’ring tiles; and worse
Than thousand padders, is the poet's curse.
Rogues that in dog-days cannot rhime forbear :
But without mercy, read, and make you hear. .

Now while my friend, just ready to depart,
Was packing all his goods in one poor cart;
He stopp'd a little at the Conduit-gate,
Where Numa modell’d once the Roman state,

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In mighty councils with his nymph retir’d:
Tho now the sacred shades and founts are hir'd
By banith'd Jews, who their whole wealth can lay
In a small basket, on a wisp of hay;
Yet such our av'rice is, that ev'ry tree
Pays for his head; nor sleep itself is free:
Nor place, nor persons, now are sacred held,
From their own grove the Muses are expell’d.
Into this lonely vale our steps we bend,
I and my fullen discontented friend :
The marble caves, and aquæducts we view r;
But how adult'rate now, and different from the

true! How much more beauteous had the fountain been Embellish'd with her first created

green, Where chrystal streams thro living turff had run, Contented with an urn of native stone!

Then thus Umbritius (with an angry frown, And looking back on this degen'rate town,) Since noble arts in Rome have no support, And ragged virtue not a friend at court, No profit rises from th'ungrateful stage, My poverty, encreasing with my age, 'Tis time to give my just disdain a vent, And, curfing, leave so base a government.

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Where Dedalus his borrow'd wings laid by,
To that obscure retreat I chuse to fly:
While yet few furrows on my face are seen,
While I walk upright, an old age is green,
And Lachesis has somewhat left to spin.
Now, now 'tis time to quit this cursed place,
And hide from villains my too honest face:
Here let Arturius live, and such as he;
Such manners will with such a town agree.
Knaves who in full afsemblies have the knack
Of turning truth to lies, and white to black;
Can hire large houses, and oppress the poor
By farm'd excise; can cleanse the common-shoar;
And rent the fishery; can bear the dead;
And teach their eyes dissembled tears to shed,
All this for gain; for gain they fell their very

These fellows (see what fortune's power can do)
Were once the minstrels of a country show: -
Follow'd the prizes thro each paltry town,
By trumpet-cheeks and bloated faces known.
But now, grown rich, on drunken holidays,
At their own costs exhibit public plays:
Where influenc'd by the rabble’s bloody will,
With thumbs bent back, they popularly kill.

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