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THE

THIRD SATIRE

OF

P E R S IU S.

THE ARGUMENT.

Our author has made two satires concerning study;

the first and the third: the first related to men; this to young fudents, whom he desired to be educated in the stoick philosophy : be himself sustains the person of the master, or præceptor, in this admirable

, satire. Where be upbraids the youth of Noth, and negligence in learning. Yet be begins with one scholar reproacbing bis fellow students with late rising to their books. After which he takes upon him the other part of the teacher. And addressing himself particularly to young noblemen, tells them, that by reason of their high birth, and the great poressions of their fathers, they are careless of adorning their minds with precepts of moral philosophy: and witbal, inculcates to them the miferies which will attend tbem in the whole

course of their life, if they do not apply themselves betimes to the knowledge of virtue, and the end of their creation, which he pathetically infinuates to them. The title of this satire, in some ancient manuscripts, was The Reproach of Idleness; tho in others of the scholiasts it is inscribed, Against the Luxury and Vices of the Rich. In both of which the intention of the poet is pursued; but principally in the former,

(I remember I translated this fatire, when I was a King's scholar

at Westminster-school, for a Thursday-night's Exercise; and believe that it, and many other of my Exercises of this nature, in English verse, are still in the hands of my learned master, the reverend doctor Busby.)

I

S this thy daily course? The glaring sun

Breaks in at ev'ry chink: the cattle run To shades, and noon-tide rays of summer shun, Yet plung’d in floth we lie; and snore supine, As fill'd with fumes of undigested wine.

This grave advice some sober student bears; And loudly rings it in his fellow's ears. The yawning youth, scarce half awake, essays His lazy limbs and dozy head to raise : Then rubs his gummy eyes, and scrubs his pate;' And cries, I thought it had not been fo late :

My cloaths make hafte: why when! if none be

near,

od

He mutters first, and then begins to swear :
And brays aloud, with a more clam'rous note,
Than an Arcadian ass can stretch his throat.

With much ado, his book before him laid,
And parchment with the smoother side display'd;
He takes the papers; lays 'em down again;
And, with unwilling fingers, tries the pen :
Some peevith quarrel streight he strives to pick ;
His quill writes double, or his ink's too thick;
Infuse more water ; now 'tis grown so thin
It sinks, nor can the characters be seen.

O wretch, and still more wretched ev'ry day!
Are mortals born to sleep their lives away?
Go back to what thy infancy began,
Thou who wert never meant to be a man:
Eat
pap

and spoon-meat; for thy gugaws cry:
Be sullen, and refuse the lullaby.
No more accase thy pen; but charge the crime
On native floth, and negligence of time.
Think'st thou thy master, or thy friends, to cheat?
Fool, 'tis thyself, and that's a worse deceit.
Beware the public laughter of the town;
Thou spring'ít a leak already in thy crown.

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A flaw is in thy ill-bak'd vessel found;
'Tis hollow, and returns a jarring sound.

Yet, thy moist clay is pliant to command;
Unwrought, and easy to the potter's hand:
Now take the mold; now bend thy mind to feel
The first sharp motions of the forming wheel.

But thou hast land; a country-seat, secure
By a just title; costly furniture ;
A fuming-pan thy Lares to appease :
What need of learning when a man's at ease ?
If this be not enough to swell thy soul,
Then please thy pride, and search the herald's roll,
Where thou shalt find thy famous pedigree
Drawn from the root of some old Tuscan tree;
And thou, a thousand off, a fool of long degree.
Who, clad in purple, can'st thy censor greet;
And, loudly, call him coufin, in the ftreet.

Such pageantry be to the people shown:
There boast thy horse's trappings, and thy own;
I know thee to thy bottom; from within
Thy shallow center, to the utmost skin :
Dost thou not blush to live so like a beast,
So trim, fo diffolute, fo loosely drest?

But 'tis in vain: the wretch is drench'd too deep;
His soul is stupid, and his heart alleep;

Fatten'd in vice; so callous, and so gross,
He fins, and sees not; senseless of his loss.
Down

goes

the wretch at once, unskill'd to swim, Hopeless to bubble

up,

and reach the water's brim.
Great father of the Gods, when, for our crimes,
Thou send'st some heavy judgment on the times;
Some tyrant-king, the terror of his

age,
The type, and true vicegerent of thy rage;
Thus punish him: set virtue in his fight,
With all her charms adorn'd, with all her graces

bright:
But set her distant, make him pale to see
His gains outweigh’d by lost felicity!

Sicilian tortures and the brazen bull,
Are emblems, rather than express the full
Of what he feels: yet what he fears is more:
The wretch, who fitting at his plenteous board,
Look'd up, and view'd on high the pointed sword
Hang o'er his head, and hanging by a twine,
Did with less dread, and more securely dine.
Ev’n in his sleep he starts, and fears the knife,
And, trembling, in his arms takes his accomplice

wife;
Down, down, he

goes; and from his darling friend Conceals the woes his guilty dreams portend.

A

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