THE ARGUMENT.
The ftory of this fatire fpeaks itself. Umbritius, the fuppofed friend of Juvenal, and himself a poet, is leaving Rome, and retiring to Cuma. Our author accompanies him out of town. Before they take leave of each other, Umbritius tells his friend the reafons which oblige him to lead a private life, in an obscure place. He complains that an boneft man cannot get his bread at Rome. That none but flatterers make their fortunes there: that Grecians and other foreigners raise themfelves by thofe fordid arts which he defcribes, and against which he bitterly inveighs. He reckons up the feveral inconveniencies which arife from a city life; and the many dangers which attend it. Upbraids the noblemen with covetousness, for not rewarding good poets; and arraigns the government for flarving them. The great art of this
fatire is particularly shown, in common places; and drawing in as many vices, as could naturally fall into the compass of it.
G
Riev'd tho I am an ancient friend to lose,
I like the folitary feat he chose:
In quiet Cumæ fixing his repose:
Where, far from noify Rome fecure he lives,
And one more citizen to Sybil gives.
The road to Bajæ, and that foft recefs
Which all the Gods with all their bounty blefs.
Tho I in Prochyta with greater ease
Could live, than in a ftreet of palaces.
What scene fo defert, or fo full of fright,
As tow'ring houfes tumbling in the night,
And Rome on fire beheld by its own blazing light?
But worse than all the clatt'ring tiles; and worfe
Than thousand padders, is the poet's curse.
Rogues that in dog-days cannot rhime forbear:
But without mercy read, and make you hear.
Now while my friend, juft ready to depart,
Was packing all his goods in one poor cart;
He stopp'd a little at the Conduit-gate,
Where Numa modell'd once the Roman ftate,
In mighty councils with his nymph retir'd:
Tho now the facred fhades and founts are hir'd
By banish'd Jews, who their whole wealth can lay
In a small basket, on a wifp of hay;
Yet fuch our av'rice is, that ev'ry tree
Pays for his head; nor fleep itself is free:
Nor place, nor perfons, now are facred held,
From their own grove the Muses are expell'd.
Into this lonely vale our fteps we bend,
I and my fullen discontented friend:
The marble caves, and aquæducts we view;
But how adult'rate now, and different from the
true!
How much more beauteous had the fountain been
Embellish'd with her first created green,
Where chrystal streams thro living turff had run,
Contented with an urn of native stone!
Then thus Umbritius (with an angry frown,
And looking back on this degen'rate town,)
Since noble arts in Rome have no fupport,
And ragged virtue not a friend at court,
No profit rifes from th' ungrateful stage,
My poverty encreasing with my age,
'Tis time to give my just disdain a vent,
And, curfing, leave fo base a government.
7
Where Dedalus his borrow'd wings laid by,
To that obfcure retreat I chufe to fly:
While yet few furrows on my face are seen,
While I walk upright, an old age is green,
And Lachefis has fomewhat left to fpin.
Now, now 'tis time to quit this cursed place,
And hide from villains my too honest face:
Here let Arturius live, and fuch as he;
Such manners will with fuch a town agree.
Knaves who in full affemblies have the knack
Of turning truth to lies, and white to black;
Can hire large houfes, and opprefs the poor
By farm'd excife; can cleanse the common-shoar;
And rent the fishery; can bear the dead;
And teach their eyes diffembled tears to shed,
All this for gain; for gain they fell their very
head.
These fellows (fee what fortune's power can do)
Were once the minstrels of a country show:
Follow'd the prizes thro each paltry town,
By trumpet-cheeks and bloated faces known.
But now, grown rich, on drunken holidays,
At their own cofts exhibit public plays:
Where influenc'd by the rabble's bloody will,
With thumbs bent back, they popularly kill.
From thence return'd, their fordid avarice rakes
In excrements again, and hires the jakes.
Why hire they not the town, not ev'ry thing,
Since fuch as they have fortune in a string?
Who, for her pleasure, can her fools advance;
And tofs 'em topmost on the wheel of chance.
What's Rome to me, what bus'ness have I there,
I who can neither lie nor falfly swear?
Nor praise my patron's undeferving rhimes,
Nor yet comply with him, nor with his times;
Unfkill'd in fchemes by planets to foreshow,
Like canting rafcals, how the wars will go:
I neither will, nor can prognofticate
To the young gaping heir, his father's fate;
Nor in the intrails of a toad have pry'd,
Nor carry'd bawdy prefents to a bride:
For want of thefe town-virtues, thus, alone,
I go conducted on my way by none:
Like a dead member from the body rent;
Maim'd, and unufeful to the government.
Who now is lov'd, but he who loves the times,
Confcious of close intrigues, and dipt in crimes;
Lab'ring with fecrets which his bofom burn,
Yet never muft to public light return?
They get reward alone who can betray:
For keeping honeft counfels none will pay.
|