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Argument of the First Satire.

I need not repeat, that the chief aim of the author is against bad poets in this fatire. But I muft add, that be includes alfo bad orators, who began at that time (as Petronius in the beginning of his book tells us) to enervate manly eloquence, by tropes and figures, ill placed and worfe applied. Amongst

the

poets, Perfius covertly ftrikes at Nero; fome of whofe verses he recites with scorn and indignation. He also takes notice of the noblemen and their abominable poetry, who in the luxury of their fortunes, fet up for wits and judges. The fatire is in dialogue, betwixt the author and his friend or monitor; who diffuades him from this dangerous attempt of expofing great men. But Perfius, who is of a free fpirit, and has not forgotten that Rome was once a commonwealth, breaks through all thofe difficulties, and boldly arraigns the false judgment of the age in which he lives. The reader may obferve that our poet was a stoick philofopher ; and that all his moral fentences, both here and in all the rest of his fatires, are drawn from the dogmas of that fect.

THE

FIRST SATIRE.

In Dialogue betwixt the POET and his
FRIEND or MONITOR.

PERSIUS.

OW anxious are our cares, and yet how vain
The bent of our defires!

HR

Friend. Thy fpleen contain:

For none will read thy fatires.

Perfius. This to me?

Friend. None; or what's next to none, but two

or three.

'Tis hard, I grant.

Perfus. 'Tis nothing; I can bear That paltry fcriblers have the public ear: That this vaft univerfal fool, the town, Should cry up Labeo's stuff, and cry me down. They damn themselves; nor will my Mufe defcend To clap with fuch, who fools and knaves commend; Their fmiles and cenfures are to me the fame: I care not what they praife, or what they blame, In full affemblies let the crowd prevail : I weigh no merit by the common scale,

The conscience is the test of ev'ry mind;
"Seek not thyself, without thyself, to find."
But where's that Roman?--Somewhat I would fay,
But fear;---let fear, for once, to truth give way.
Truth lends the Stoick courage: when I look
On human acts, and read in Nature's book,
From the first paftimes of our infant age,
To elder cares, and man's feverer page;
When stern as tutors, and as uncles hard,
We lash the pupil, and defraud the ward:
Then, then I fay,---or would fay, if I durst--
But thus provok'd, I muft fpeak out, or burst.
Friend. Once more forbear.

Perfius. I cannot rule my fpleen;
My fcorn rebels, and tickles me within.
First, to begin at home: our authors write
In lonely rooms, fecur'd from public fight;
Whether in profe, or verfe, 'tis all the fame:
The profe is fuftian, and the numbers lame.
All noife, and empty pomp, a ftorm of words,
Lab'ring with found, that little sense affords.
They comb, and then they order ev'ry hair:
A gown, or white, or fcour'd to whitenefs, wear:
A birth-day jewel bobbing at their ear,

}

Next, gargle well their throats, and thus prepar'd,
They mount, a God's name, to be feen and heard.
From their high scaffold, with a trumpet cheek,
And ogling all their audience ere they speak.
The nauseous nobles, ev'n the chief of Rome,
With gaping mouths to these rehearsals come,
And pant with pleasure, when fome lufty line
The marrow pierces, and invades the chine.
At open fulfom bawdry they rejoice,
And flimy jeft applaud with broken voice.
Base prostitute, thus doft thou gain thy bread?
Thus doft thou feed their ears, and thus art fed?
At his own filthy ftuff he grins and brays:
And gives the fign where he expects their praise.

Why have I learn'd, fay'ft thou, if thus confin'd,
I choke the noble vigour of my mind?
Know, my wild fig-tree, which in rocks is bred,
Will split the quarry, and shoot out the head.
Fine fruits of learning! old ambitious fool,
Dar'st thou apply that adage of the school;
As if 'tis nothing worth that lies conceal'd,
And "fcience is not science till reveal'd?'
Oh, but 'tis brave to be admir'd, to fee

The crowd, with pointing fingers, cry, That's

he:

That's he whose wond'rous poem is become
A lecture for the noble youth of Rome!
Who, by their fathers, is at feafts renown'd;
And often quoted when the bowls go round.
Full gorg'd and flufh'd, they wantonly rehearse;
And add to wine the luxury of verfe.
One, clad in purple, not to lofe his time,
Eats and recites fome lamentable rhyme :
Some fenfelefs Phillis, in a broken note,
Snuffling at nose, and croaking in his throat:
Then graciously the mellow audience nod:
Is not th' immortal author made a God?
Are not his manes bleft; such praise to have?
Lies not the turf more lightly on his grave?
And rofes (while his loud applause they fing)
Stand ready from his fepulcher to spring?

All thefe, you cry, but light objections are;
Meer malice, and you drive the jeft too far.
For does there breathe a man, who can reject
A gen'ral fame, and his own lines neglect?
In cedar tablets worthy to appear,
That need not fish, or frankincenfe to fear?
Thou, whom I make the adverfe part to bear,
Be answer'd thus: if I by chance fucceed
In what I write, (and that's a chance indeed)

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