admire, Mæcenas, how it comes to pafs,
That no man ever yet contented was,
Nor is, nor perhaps will be, with that state
In which his own choice plants him, or his fate.
Happy the merchant! the old foldier cries;
The merchant, beaten with tempeftuous skies,
Happy the foldier! one half hour to thee
Gives speedy death, or glorious victory.
The lawyer, knockt up early from his reft
By restless clients, calls the peasant bleft;
The peasant, when his labours ill fucceed,
Envies the mouth, which only talk does feed.
'Tis not (I think you'll say) that I want store
Of inftances, if here I add no more;
They are enough to reach at least a mile
Beyond long orator Fabius's ftyle.
But, hold, ye, whom no fortune e'er endears,
Gentlemen, malecontents, and mutineers,
Who bounteous Jove fo often cruel call,
Behold, Jove's now refolv'd to please you all.
Thou, foldier, be a merchant; merchant, thou
A foldier be; and, lawyer, to the plow.
Change all your ftations ftrait: why do they stay?
The devil a man will change, now, when he may.
Were I in general Jove's abused cafe,
By Jove I'd cudgel this rebellious race:
But he's too good; be all then, as ye were:
However, make the best of what ye are,
And in that state be chearful and rejoice,
Which either was your fate, or was your choice.
No, they must labour yet, and sweat and toil,
And very miferable be a while.
But 'tis with a design only to gain
What may their age with plenteous cafe maintain.
The prudent pifaire does this leffon teach,
And industry to lazy mankind preach.
The little drudge does trot about and sweat,
Nor does he strait devour all he can get,
But in his temperate mouth carries it home
A stock for winter, which he knows must come.
And, when the rowling world to creatures here
Turns up the deform'd wrong fide of the year,
And shuts him in, with ftorms, and cold, and wet,
He chearfully does his past labours eat :
O, does he fo? your wife example, th' ant,
Does not, at all times, reft and plenty want.
But, weighing juftly a mortal ant's condition,
Divides his life 'twixt labour and fruition.
Thee, neither heat, nor ftorms, nor wet, nor cold,
From thy unnatural diligence can withhold:
To th' Indies thou wouldst run rather than fee
Another, though a friend, richer than thee.
Fond man! what good or beauty can be found
In heaps of treasure, buried under ground?
Which rather than diminish'd e'er to fee
Thou wouldst thyself, too, buried with them be:
And what's the difference, is't not quite as bad
Never to use, as never to have had ?
In thy vaft barns millions of quarters ftore,
Thy belly, for all that, will hold no more
Than mine does; every baker makes much bread,
What then? He's with no more, than others, fed.
Do you within the bounds of nature live,
And to augment your own you need not strive;
One hundred acres will no lefs for you
Your life's whole business, than ten thousand, do,
But pleasant 'tis to take from a great store;
What, man? though you're refolv'd to take no more
Than I do from a finall one;
Be but a pitcher or a pot to fill,
To fome great river for it muft you go,
When a clear fpring juft at your feet does flow?
Give me the spring, which does to human use
Safe, eafy, and untroubled ftores produce;
He who scorns these, and needs will drink at Nile,
Muft run the danger of the crocodile,
And of the rapid stream itself, which may,
At unawares, bear him perhaps away.
In a full flood Tantalus ftands, his skin
Wash'd o'er in vain, for ever dry within ;
He catches at the ftream with greedy lips,
From his toucht mouth the wanton torment flips [];
You laugh now, and expand your careful brow;
'Tis finely faid, but what's all this to you ?
Change but the name, this fable is thy story,
Thou in a flood of ufelefs wealth doft glory,
Which thou canst only touch, but never taft;
Th' abundance ftill, and still the want, does last.
The treasures of the gods thou wouldst not spare,
But, when they're made thine own, they facred are,
And must be kept with reverence; as if thou
No other use of precious gold didst know,
But that of curious pictures, to delight
With the fair stamp thy virtuofo fight.
The only true and genuine use is this,
To buy the things, which nature cannot mifs
[p] - the wanton torment flips] Prettily expreffed in Ovid's manner; but that is not the manner of Horace, who fays elegantly, but fimply—
Without discomfort; oil, and vital bread,
And wine, by which the life of life is fed,
And all those few things elfe, by which we liv
All that remains, is giv'n for thee to give ;
If cares and troubles, envy, grief and fear,
The bitter fruits be, which fair riches bear;
If a new poverty grow out of store;
The old plain way, ye gods! let me be poor.
Paraphrafe on HORACE, B. III. Od. x
A TOWER of brafs, one would have fai
And locks, and bolts, and iron bars,
And guards, as strict as in the heat of wars,
Might have preferv'd one innocent maiden-head.
The jealous father thought, he well might spare
All further jealous care;
And, as he walk'd, t'himself alone he smil'd,
To think how Venus' arts he had beguil'd;
And, when he slept, his reft was deep,
But Venus laugh'd to fee and hear him sleep.
She taught the amorous Jove
A magical receipt in love,
Which arm'd him ftronger, and which help'd
Than all his thunder did, and his almighty-fhip fore.
She taught him love's elixir, by which art
His godhead into gold he did convert:
No guards did then his paffage ftay,
Subtle, as lightning, bright and quick and fierce,
Gold through doors and walls did pierce.
The prudent Macedonian king,
To blow up towns, a golden mine did spring.
He broke through gates with this petar,
'Tis the great art of peace, the engine 'tis of war ;
And fleets and armies follow it afar,
The enfign 'tis at land, and 'tis the feaman's ftar.
Let all the world flave to this tyrant be,
Creature to this disguised deity,"
Yet it fhall never conquer me.
A guard of virtues will not let it pass,
And wisdom is a tower of stronger brass.
The mufes lawrel [p], round my temples spread,
Does from this lightning's force fecure my head.
Nor will I lift it up fo high,
As in the violent meteor's way to lie [7].
[p] The Muses lawrel] A very poetical manner of expreffing that plain fentiment
-The common fuperftition makes the lawrel, a prefervative against the blaft of lightning.
meteor's way to lie.] All this imagery is extracted out of a fine, indeed, but fimple enough, verfe of the original
Latè confpicuum tollere verticem
It is curious to obferve the whole process. Thelatè confpicuus vertex-put him in mind of the mountain's top, which is moft expofed to the ravage of thunder
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