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THE

S I X TH SA TIRE

OF

P E R S T U S.

This sixth satire treats an admirable common-place

of moral philosophy; of the true use of riches. They are certainly intended by the Power who bestows them, as instruments and helps of living commodiously ourselves; and of administring to the wants of others, who are oppressed by fortune. There are two extremes in the opinions of men concerning them. One error, tho on the right hand, yet a great one, is, that they are no belps to a virtuous life; the other places all our happiness in the acquisition and pollespion of them; and this is, undoubtedly, the worse extream.

Tbe mean betwixt these, is the opinion of the Stoicks ; which is, that riches

may be useful to the leading a virtuous life; in case we rightly understand how to give according to right reason ; and how to receive what is given us by others. The virtue of giving well, is called liberality: and it is of this

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virtue that Perhus writes in this fatire; wherein be not only fews the lawful use of riches, but also Sharply inveighs against the vices which are opposed to it; and especially of those, which conff in the defects of giving or spending; or in the abuse of riches. He writes to Cæfius Bassus bis friend, and a poet also. Enquires first of his health and studies; and afterwards informiş bin of his own, and where he is now resident. He gives an account of himself, that he is endeavouring by little and little to wear off his vices; and particularly, that he is combating ambition, and the desire of wealth. He dwells upon the latter vice: and being sensible that few men either depre or use riches as they ought, he endeavours to convince them of their folly ; which is the main den sign of the whole satire.

THE

SI X T H S A TIRE

To CÆSIUS BASSUS, a Lyric Poet.
AS winter caus'd thee, friend, to change

thy seat,
And seek in Sabine air a warm retreat ?
Say, do'st thou yet the Roman harp command ?
Do the strings answer to thy noble hand?

HAS

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Great master of the muse, inspir’d to fing
The beauties of the first created spring;
The pedigree of nature to rehearse,
And found the Maker's work, in equal verse.
Now sporting on thy lyre the loves of youth.
Now virtuous age, and venerable truth ;
Expressing justly Sappho's wanton art
Of odes, and Pindar's more majestic part.

For me, my warmer constitution wants
More cold, than our Ligurian winter grants ;
And therefore to my native shoars retir'd,
I view the coast old Ennius once admir'd;
Where clifts on either sides their points dif-

play;
Ånd, after, opening in an ampler way,
Afford the pleasing prospect of the bay.
'Tis worth your while, O Romans, to regard
The
port

of Luna says our learned bard; Who in a drunken dream beheld his soul The fifth within the transmigrating roll; Which first a peacock, then Euphorbus was, Then Homer next, and next Pythagoras; And last of all the line did into Ennius pass.

Secure and free from business of the state ; And more secure of what the vulgar prate,

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Here I enjoy my private thoughts ; nor care What rots for sheep the southern winds prepare : Survey the neighb'ring fields, and not repine, When I behold a larger crop

than mine : To see a beggar's brat in riches flow, Adds not a wrinkle to my even brow; Nor, envious at the fight, will I forbear My plenteous bowl, nor bate my bounteous cheer. Nor

yet unseal the dregs of wine that stink Of cask ; nor in a nasty flaggon drink; Let others stuff their guts with homely fare; For men of diff'rent inclinations are; Tho born perhaps beneath one common star. In minds and manners twins oppos'd we see In the fame fign, almost the same degree: One, frugal, on his birth-day fears to dine ; Does at a penny's cost in herbs repine, And hardly dares to dip his fingers in the brine. Prepar'd as priest of his own rites to stand, He sprinkles pepper with a sparing hand. His jolly brother, opposite in sense, Laughs at his thrift; and lavish of expence, Quaffs, crams, and guttles, in his own defence. For me, I'll use my own; and take my share;

; Yet will not turbots for

my
flaves

prepare ; VOL. IV.

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Nor be so nice in taste myself to know
If what I fwallow be a thrush, or no.
Live on thy annual income; spend 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 shipwreck'd on the Brutian strand,
His riches in th' Ionian main are lost;
And he himself stands shiv'ring on the coast;
Where, destitute of help, forlorn and bare,
He wearies the deaf Gods with fruitlefs pray'r.
Their images, the relicks of the wrack,
Torn from the naked poop, are tided back
By the wild waves, and rudely thrown alhore,
Lie impotent; nor can themselves restore.
The vessel sticks, and shews her open'd fide,
And on her shatter'd mast the mews in triumphride.
From thy new hope, and from thy growing store,
Now lend affistance, 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 squander'st thus away,

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