Ev'n those thou wouldst in veneration hold;
And, if not faces, give 'em beards of gold.
The priests in temples, now no longer care
For Saturn's brafs, or Numa's earthen ware;
Or vestal urns, in each religious rite:
This wicked gold has put 'em all to flight.
O fouls, in whom no heav'nly fire is found,
Fat minds, and ever grov'ling on the ground!
We bring our manners to the blest abodes,
And think what pleases us must please the Gods.
Of oil and caffia one th' ingredients takes,
And, of the mixture, a rich ointment makes:
Another finds the way to dye in grain;

And makes Calabrian wool receive the Tyrian ftain;

Or from the shells their orient treasure takes,
Or, for their golden ore, in rivers rakes;
Then melts the mafs: all these are vanities!
Yet still some profit from their pains may rife:
But tell me, prieft, if I may be fo bold,
What are the Gods the better for this gold?
The wretch that offers from his wealthy ftore
These presents, bribes the Pow'rs to give him more:
As maids to Venus offer baby-toys,

To bless the marriage-bed with girls and boys.

J

But let us for the Gods a gift prepare,

Which the great man's great charges cannot bear :
A foul, where laws both human and divine,
In practice more than fpeculation shine:
A genuine virtue, of a vigorous kind,

Pure in the laft receffes of the mind:
When with fuch off'rings to the Gods I come,
A cake, thus giv'n, is worth a hecatomb.

સર્વ ક

THE

THIRD SATIRE

OF

PERSIUS.

THE ARGUMENT.

Our author has made two fatires concerning ftudy; the first and the third: the first related to men; this to young fludents, whom he defired to be educated in the ftoick philofophy: he himself fuftains the person of the master, or præceptor, in this admirable fatire. Where he upbraids the youth of floth, and negligence in learning. Yet he begins with one fcholar reproaching his fellow students with late rifing to their books. After which he takes upon him the other part of the teacher. And addreffing himself particularly to young noblemen, tells them, that by reafon of their high birth, and the great poffeffions of their fathers, they are careless of adorning their minds with precepts of moral philofophy: and withal, inculcates to them the miferies which will attend them in the whole

courfe of their life, if they do not apply themfelves betimes to the knowledge of virtue, and the end of their creation, which he pathetically infi nuates to them. The title of this fatire, in fome ancient manuscripts, was The Reproach of Idlenefs; tho in others of the fcholiafts it is infcribed, 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 tranflated this satire, when I was a King's scholar at Westminster-school, for a Thursday-night's Exercife; 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 courfe? The glaring fun

Breaks in at ev'ry chink: the cattle run To fhades, and noon-tide rays of fummer fhun, Yet plung'd in floth we lie; and fnore fupine, As fill'd with fumes of undigested wine.

This grave advice fome fober ftudent bears; And loudly rings it in his fellow's ears. The yawning youth, fcarce half awake, effays His lazy limbs and dozy head to raise : Then rubs his gummy eyes, and fcrubs his pate; And cries, I thought it had not been fo late:

My cloaths make hafte: why when! if none be

near,

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

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

O wretch, and still more wretched ev'ry day!
Are mortals born to fleep their lives away?
Go back to what thy infancy began,

Thou who wert never meant to be a man:
Eat

pap and fpoon-meat; for thy gugaws cry: Be fullen, and refuse the lullaby.

No more accuse thy pen; but charge the crime
On native floth, and negligence of time.
Think'st thou thy mafter, or thy friends, to cheat?
Fool, 'tis thyfelf, and that's a worse deceit.
Beware the public laughter of the town;
Thou fpring'ft a leak already in thy crown.