Sidor som bilder

And, fetting her good housewifry aside,
Prepares for all the pageantry of pride.
The captive Germans, of gigantic fize,
Are rank'd in order, and are clad in frize:
The fpoils of kings, and conquer'd camps weboaft,
Their arms in trophies hang on the triumphal poft.
Now, for fo many glorious actions done
In foreign parts, and mighty battles won:
For peace at home, and for the public wealth,
I mean to crown a bowl to Cæfar's health:
Befides, in gratitude for fuch high matters,
Know I have vow'd two hundred gladiators.
Say, wouldst thou hinder me from this expence?
I difinherit thee, if thou dar'ft take offence.
Yet more, a public largefs I defign

Of oil and pies, to make the people dine:
Controul me not, for fear I change my will.

And yet methinks I hear thee grumbling ftill, You give as if you were the Perfian king: Your land does no fo large revenues bring. Well; on my terms thou wilt not be my heir? If thou car'ft little, lefs fhall be my care: Were none of all my father's fifters left; Nay, were I of my mother's kin bereft : None by an uncle's or a grandame's fide, Yet I could fome adopted heir provide.

I need but take my journey half a day
From haughty Rome, and at Aricia stay,
Where fortune throws poor Manius in my way.
Him will I choofe: What him, of humble birth,
Obfcure, a foundling, and a fon of earth?
Obfcure? Why pr'ythee what am I? I know
My father, grandfire, and great-grandfire too:
If farther 1 derive my pedigree,

I can but guefs beyond the fourth degree.
The rest of my forgotten ancestors,

Were fons of earth, like him, or fons of whores. Yet why wouldst thou, old covetous wretch, af ire

To be my heir, who might'st have been my fire?
In nature's race, fhouldft thou demand of me
My torch, when I in courfe run after thee?
Think I approach thee, like the God of gain,
With wings on head and heels, as poets feign:
Thy mod'rate fortune from my gift receive;
Now fairly take it, or as fairly leave.
But take it as it is, and afk no more.

What, when thou haft embezzel'd all thy store? Where's all thy father left? 'Tis true, I grant, Some I have mortgag'd, to fupply my want:

The legacies of Tadius too are flown;
All spent, and on the self-fame errand gone.
How little then to my poor fhare will fall?
Little indeed; but yet that little's all.

Nor tell me, in a dying father's tone,
Be careful ftill of the main chance, my fon;
Put out thy principal, in trufty hands:
Live on the use; and never dip thy lands:
But yet what's left for me? What's left, my

Afk that again, and all the reft I spend.
Is not my fortune at my own command?
Pour oil, and pour it with a plenteous hand,
Upon my fallads, boy: fhall I be fed
With fodden nettles, and a fing'd fow's head?
'Tis holiday; provide me better cheer;
'Tis holiday, and shall be round the year.
Shall I my houfhold Gods and genius cheat,
To make him rich, who grudges me my meat?
That he may loll at eafe; and pamper'd high,
When I am laid, may feed on giblet-pie?
And when his throbbing luft extends the vein,
Have wherewithal his whores to entertain?
Shall I in homefpun cloth be clad, that he
His paunch in triumph may before him fee?

Go, mifer, go; for lucre fell thy foul; Truck wares for wares, and trudge from pole to pole:

That men may fay, when thou art dead and gone,

See what a vaft eftate he left his fon!
How large a family of brawny knaves,
Well fed, and fat as Cappadocian slaves!
Increase thy wealth, and double all thy ftore;
'Tis done: now double that, and fwell the score;
To ev'ry thousand add ten thousand more.
Then say, Chryfippus, thou who wouldst confine
Thy heap, where I fhall put an end to mine.

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