To cleanse the gutters, and the chinks to clofe
And, for one night, secure his lord's repose.
At Cuma we can fleep quite round the year,
Nor falls, nor fires, nor nightly dangers fear
While rolling flames from Roman turrets fly,
And the pale citizens for buckets cry.
Thy neighbour has remov'd his wretched store
(Few hands will rid the lumber of the poor)
Thy own third story smokes, while thou, fupine,
Art drench'd in fumes of undigefted wine.
For if the lowest floors already burn,
Cock-lofts and garrets foon will take the turn.
Where thy tame pidgeons next the tiles were bred,
Which, in their nefts unfafe, are timely fled.
Codrus had but one bed, fo fhort to boot,
That his short wife's fhort legs hung dangling
His cupboard's head fix earthen pitchers grac'd,
Beneath 'em was his trufty tankard plac'd.
And, to support this noble plate, there lay
A bending Chiron caft from honeft clay;
His few Greek books a rotten cheft contain'd;
Whose covers much of mouldinefs complain'da
Where mice and rats devour'd poetic bread;
And with heroic verfe luxurioufly were fed.
Tis true, poor Codrus nothing had to boast,
And yet poor Codrus all that nothing loft.
Begg'd naked thro the streets of wealthy Rome;
And found not one to feed, or take him home.
But if the palace of Arturius burn,
The nobles change their cloaths, the matrons
The city-prætor will no pleadings hear;
The very name of fire we hate and fear:
And look aghaft, as if the Gauls were here.
While yet it burns, th' officious nation flies,
Some to condole, and fome to bring fupplies:
One fends him marble to rebuild, and one
With naked statues of the Parian stone,
The work of Polyclete, that feem to live
While others images for altars give;
One books and fkreens, and Pallas to the breaft;
Another bags of gold, and he gives beft.
Childlefs Arturius, vaftly rich before,
Thus by his loffes multiplies his store:
Sufpected for accomplice to the fire,
That burnt his palace but to build it higher.
But, could you be content to bid adieu
To the dear play-houfe, and the players too:
Sweet country-feats are purchas'd every where,
With lands and gardens, at less price than here
You hire a darksome doghole by the year.
A small convenience decently prepar'd,
A thallow well that rifes in your yard,
That spreads his easy chrystal streams around,
And waters all the pretty spot of ground.
There, love the fork, thy garden cultivate,
And give thy frugal friends a Pythagorean treat,
"Tis fomewhat to be lord of fome small ground
In which a lizard may, at least, turn round.
'Tis frequent, here, for want of fleep to die; Which fumes of undigested feasts deny ;
And, with imperfect heat, in languid stomachs
What house fecure from noife the poor can keep,
When ev'n the rich can scarce afford to sleep;
So dear it cofts to purchase reft in Rome;
And hence the fources of diseases come.
The drover who his fellow-drover meets
In narrow paffages of winding streets;
The waggoners that curse their standing teams,
Would wake ev'n droufy Drufius from his dreams.
And yet the wealthy will not brook delay,
But fweep above our heads, and make their way;
In lofty litters born, and read and write,
Or fleep at ease: the shutters make it night.
Yet still he reaches, firft, the public place:
The prease before him ftops the client's pace.
The crowd that follows crufh his panting fides,
And trip his heels; he walks not, but he rides.
One elbows him, one juftles in the shole:
A rafter breaks his head, or chairman's pole :
Stocking'd with loads of fat town-dirt he goes;
And fome rogue-foldier, with his hob-nail'd shoes,
Indents his legs behind in bloody rows.
See with what smoke our doles we celebrate :
A hundred guests, invited, walk in ftate:
A hundred hungry flaves, with their Dutch
kitchins wait.
Huge pans the wretches on their head muft bear,
Which scarce gigantic Corbulo could rear:
Yet they must walk upright beneath the load
Nay, run, and running blow the sparkling flames
abroad.
Their coats, from botching newly brought, are
Unweildly timber-trees in waggons born,
Stretch'd at their length, beyond their carriage lie; That nod, and threaten ruin from on high.
For, fhould their axel break, its overthrow
Would crush, and pound to duft, the crowd
[could know:
Nor friends their friends, nor fires their fons,
Nor limbs, nor bones, nor carcafs would remain:
But a mash'd heap, a hotchpotch of the flain.
One vast destruction; not the foul alone,
But bodies, like the foul, invifibly are flown.
Mean time, unknowing of their fellows fate,
The servants wash the platter, fcour the plate,
Then blow the fire, with puffing cheeks, and lay'
The rubbers, and the bathing-fheets difplay;
And oil them firft; and each is handy in his way.
But he, for whom this bufy care they take,
Poor ghoft, is wand'ring by the Stygian lake:
Affrighted with the ferryman's grim face;
New to the horrors of that uncouth place;
His paffage begs with unregarded pray'r :
And wants two farthings to discharge his fare.
Return we to the dangers of the night;
And, firft, behold our houses dreadful height: From whence come broken potsherds tumbling down;
And leaky ware, from garret-windows thrown: Well may they break our heads, that mark the flinty ftone.
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