Horace

I've listen'd long, and now wou'd Silence break, If your poor timerous Slave had leave to speak. What, Davus, is it thou? The very same; And, if the truest Services may claim The just Return of a kind Master's Care, Methinks that I of yours deserve a Share.

Why then, since ancient Custom has ordain'd Thy Tongue at this time should be unrestrain'd, Of this Saturnian Feast th' Advantage take, And what thou would'st deliver, freely speak.

Part of Mankind on Vice are firmly bent, Their constant Pleasure and their sole Intent; While a large part are fluctuating still, And now inclin'd to Good, and now inclin'd to Ill.

For such Inconstancy was Priscus known, Twice in an Hour he chang'd his darling Gown, To-day three Rings he wears, to-morrow none; From his own pompous Palace oft he stole, And to some lurking Place so vile wou'd strole, Ev'n cleanly Slaves wou'd scorn the nasty Hole. One Day, he wishes it may be his Doom, To pass his Life in Lewdness and in Rome; The next, that Athens, Virtue's learned Seat, May prove his Quiet and his last Retreat: From Object thus to Object would he range, As if possess'd by all the Gods of Change.

Volnerius, justly lam'd in both his Hands, Keeps one in Pay, that at his Elbow stands, Merely to throw the gouty Gamester's Dice; So persevering is he in his Vice. Less wretched thus, in constantly pursuing An obvious, certain, but a pleasing Ruin, Than t'other struggling with strong Inclination, And sure to shock his Reason or his Passion.

Sirrah, what's all this Stuff? to what Intent? And what's by all these musty Morals meant?

As musty, Sir, as you are pleas'd to find 'em, Ev'n for your Worship's Service I design'd 'em.

How so, you Dog? Our Ancients, Sir, you praise, Their temperate Life, their plain, their frugal ways; When in an instant, should some Pow'r Divine Pronounce aloud, That Antique Life be thine, You wou'd refuse the Grant, nor have the Heart From your dear, darling Vices e'er to part; Either because you feel not what you speak, Or else your Mind's inconstant still and weak: Thus while one Foot you labour to retire, Your other plunges deeper in the Mire.

When you're in Rome, you're all on fire to prove The Solitary Pleasures of your Grove; But scarce you're to your Country Seat got down, When to the Skies y' extol the absent Town.

If uninvited and at home you eat, How quiet is the Morsel, and how sweet! And you so pleas'd, that one wou'd surely think, Abroad unwillingly you eat or drink; But let Maecenas send for you next Day, How eager you the Summons to obey! Who's there? who waits? where are my Raskals all? What ho! my Essence: frantickly you bawl; When with light Bellies and with heavy Heart Your spunging Scoundrels, cursing you, depart.

I grant that I my Belly love full well; That each good Dish allures me by the Smell; That indolent and idle, and a Sot, I'm hardly driven to forsake my Pot; But yet that you who still are worse sometimes, Tho' specious Words may colour o'er your Crimes, That You should reprimand me ev'ry Hour, Only because you have me in your Pow'r, When this poor Slave, whom for ten Pounds you bought, Better and wiser too perhaps is thought—

Nay, against all Resentment I declare; Both Frowns and Blows and angry Words I bar; While what I learnt from my Converse of late With Crispin's Porter, I shall now relate.

No less, forsooth, than some fine marry'd Dame Can raise your Fancy and provoke your Flame; While honest Davus, humble as he's poor, Pretends no higher than his little Whore. If then the Case stands thus between us two, Am I the greater Criminal or you?

When Nature keen incites Love's fierce Desires, To some convenient Place to quench those Fires, Forthwith, defying Scandal, I repair, And some kind she, whom Lust has painted fair, I take, and in her loose, commodious Dress, The willing, wanton Baggage I caress; But after having well my self diverted, I'm in no Pain, for being soon deserted, Nor care if, when my present Pastime's over, Her next a finer be, or richer Lover.

When you aside your Marks of Honour fling, Your Roman Robe and your Equestrian Ring; When you, whom Caesar made a Judge so grave, Sculk, in the filthy Habit of a Slave, To blind some Cuckold, and his Wife t'obtain; Are you not really what you think you feign?

Trembling you're introduc'd, tho' all on fire, Fear in your Breast conflicting with Desire; What Gladiator, hack'd and hew'd all o'er For wretched Sustenance, can suffer more? Witness, when Neck and Heels together prest, You're cram'd for Refuge in some nasty Chest.

Is not Revenge the Injur'd Husband's Due, Both on the Wife and her Corrupter too? What Favour can the latter hope or claim, Industrious to offend—Not so the Dame. She ne'er steals out to meet you in Disguise, Nor to your active Ardor e'er replies, But dully passive in your Arms she lies. Not but she'd meet you with an equal Gust, If to your amorous Vows she dar'd to trust, Nor fear'd you'd scorn her for her rampant Lust.

Yet on to Bondage willingly you go, Round your ownNeck the galling Yoke you throw, While to your Cuckold, in his raging Fit, Your Honour, Life and Fortune you commit. Have you escap'd? 'Tis hop'd, that Danger past, May teach you Caution and more Wit at last, No—still you long your former Risques to run, And fresh Occasions seek to be undone. Oh, Slave confirm'd! who can so often fall Into repeated Bonds, and willing Thrall! What Beast's so stupid, when he breaks his Chain, As ever to return to it again?

You're no Aldult'rer—Right—No Thief am I; Your Plate I pass with vast Discretion by, But set the legal Penalties aside, And Nature breaks thro' all Restraints beside.

You can I justly then my Master call, You, whom so many Lusts and Men enthrall, Whom shou'd the Praetor's Wand strike thrice, or more, Your native Freedom it cou'd ne'er restore, And ne'er expel the Fear that tyranniz'd before?

As one, who to Commands Obedience pays, Which some Superior Slave upon him lays, For such a Custom here I find you have) Calls that Superior still his Fellow Slave; So since you still unactive are alone, And move by Springs, like Puppets, not your own; Since your mad Passions rule both you and me, Pray what but wretched Fellow Slaves are we? At this Rate who is free? The wise Man's free; That Sovereign of his Mind, 'tis only he Who can be said t'enjoy true Liberty; Who spight of Death, of Poverty and Chains, And Pleasures, o'er himself serenely reigns; Who stands collected in himself, and whole, A Match for all the Tyrants of the Soul; Who scorning Titles, of himself is great, Of Fortune independant and of Fate.

This is the Picture of the Man that's free; Now here what Feature of your own do' you see? Your costly Whore, who has your Weakness found, Presses and plagues you for a thousand Pound: Refus'd, in Rage she turns you out of Doors, And a salt Show'r upon your Head she pours. Yet when she calls again, you're at her beck.— From this vile Yoke, for Shame, withdraw your Neck; Come, say I'm Free—Alas! you have no Pow'r To quit the Tyrant Passion, that each Hour Subjects your Mind, and will no Mercy show, But spurs you tir'd and jaded as you go.

Or when in foolish Rapture long you stand, Admiring some fam'd Piece of Pausia's Hand, How is your Conduct less a Fault than mine, When gaping at some brawny Fencer's Sign, Bungl'd in Chalk or Coal, I think it fine? And lag a while to view the painted Show, And how they seem to give and ward the Blow

Davus however is the loit'ring Ass, While for a plaguy Judge of Art you pass. If I'm provok'd by a hot smoaking Pye To Demolition, what a Rogue am I? While you, the Man of Virtue and high Mind, Disdain the Dishes of the nicest kind.

For my good Cheer you'll say I dearly pay, Since with my Back my Belly I defray. But can you draw a just Conclusion hence, That you're luxurious at a less Expence? When choicest Viands in Excesses cloy, And endlessly debauching, you destroy, That Strength, that should your faultring Limbs supply, Which now to bear your pamper'd Corps deny.

If the young liquorish Rogue, who swaps for Trash The Toys he stole, most justly feels the Lash; Shall he escape the Scourge, who, to supply His Luxury, makes Lands and Lordships fly?

Now add to what I've said, you want the Pow'r T' endure your self alone one single Hour, You want the Pow'r your Leisure to enjoy, But ev'ry precious Moment misemploy. Still from your self a Fugitive you run, And seek by Wine and Sleep your Care to shun, Care on its dusky Wings pursues its Prey, Or lies in Ambuscade upon your way, Haunts you by Night and ruffles you by Day.

Oh that a Stone—Oh that a Dart I had! The Man is raving sure or rhiming mad. Sirrah, this Moment vanish from my Sight. For if thou dost not urge thy speedy Flight, To my Plantation, Wretch, thou goest once more, T' encrease the Number I've sent there before.