The Portable Roman Reader (Portable Library) (69 page)

And, now we talk of
Grecians,
cast a view
On what, in Schools, their Men of Morals do;
A rigid Stoick his own Pupil slew.
A Friend, against a Friend, of his own Cloath,
Turn’d Evidence, and murther’d on his Oath.
What room is left for
Romans,
in a Town
Where
Grecians
rule, and Cloaks control the Gown?
Some
Diphilus,
or some
Protogenes,
Look sharply out, our Senators to seize:
Engross ‘em wholly, by their Native Art,
And fear no Rivals in their Bubbles heart:
One drop of Poison in my Patron’s Ear,
One slight suggestion of a senseless fear,
Infus’d with cunning, serves to ruine me;
Disgrac’d, and banish’d from the Family.
In vain forgotten Services I boast;
My long dependance in an hour is lost:
Look round the World, what Country will appear,
Where Friends are left with greater ease than here?
At Rome (nor think me partial to the Poor)
All Offices of ours are out of Door:
In vain we rise, and to their Levees run;
My Lord himself is up, before, and gone:
The Prætor bids his Lictors mend their pace,
Lest his Collegue outstrip him in the Race:
The childless Matrons are, long since, awake;
And for Affronts the tardy Visits take.

‘Tis frequent, here, to see a free-born Son
On the left-hand of a Rich Hireling run:
Because the wealthy Rogue can throw away,
For half a Brace of Bouts, a Tribune’s pay
But you, poor Sinner, tho you love the Vice,
And like the Whore, demurr upon the Price:
And, frighted with the wicked Sum, forbear
To lend a hand, and help her from the Chair.

Produce a Witness of unblemish’d life,
Holy as
Numa,
or as
Numa’s
Wife,
Or him who bid th’ unhallow’d Flames retire;
And snatch’d the trembling Goddess from the Fire.
The Question is not put how far extends
His Piety, but what he yearly spends:
Quick, to the Bus‘ness; how he Lives and Eats;
How largely Gives; how splendidly he Treats:
How many thousand Acres feed his Sheep,
What are his Rents, what Servants does he keep?
Th’ Account is soon cast up; the Judges rate
Our Credit in the Court, by our Estate.
Swear by our Gods, or those the
Greeks
adore,
Thou art as sure Forsworn, as thou art Poor:
The Poor must gain their Bread by Perjury;
And even the Gods, that other Means deny,
In Conscience must absolve ’em, when they lye.

Add, that the Rich have still a Gibe in store;
And will be monstrous witty on the Poor:
For the torn Surtout and the tatter’d Vest,
The Wretch and all his Wardrobe are a Jest;
The greasie Gown, sully’d with often turning,
Gives a good hint, to say The Man’s in Mourning:
Or if the Shoo be ript, or patches put,
He’s wounded! see the Plaister on his Foot.
Want is the Scorn of ev‘ry Wealthy Fool;
And Wit in Rags is turn’d to Ridicule.

Pack hence, and from the Cover’d Benches rise
(The Master of the Ceremonies cries),
This is no place for you, whose small Estate
Is not the Value of the settled Rate:
The Sons of happy Punks, the Pandars Heir,
Are priviledg’d to sit in triumph there,
To clap the first, and rule the Theatre.
Up to the Galleries, for shame, retreat:
For, by the
Roscian
Law, the Poor can claim no Seat.
Who ever brought to his rich Daughter’s Bed
The Man that poll’d but Twelve-pence for his Head?
Who ever nam’d a poor Man for his Heir,
Or call’d him to assist the Judging Chair?
The Poor were wise, who by the Rich oppress‘d,
Withdrew, and sought a Sacred Place of Rest.
Once they did well, to free themselves from Scorn;
But had done better never to return.
Rarely they rise by Virtues aid, who lie
Plung’d in the depth of helpless Poverty.

At
Rome
‘tis worse; where House-rent by the Year,
And Servants Bellies cost so Dev’llish dear;
And Tavern Bills run high for hungry Chear.
To drink or eat in Earthen Ware we scorn,
Which cheaply Country Cupboards does adorn:
And coarse blue Hoods on Holydays are worn.
Some distant parts of
Italy
are known,
Where none, but only dead Men, wear a Gown:
On Theatres of Turf, in homely State,
Old Plays they act, old Feasts they Celebrate:
The same rude Song returns upon the Crowd,
And, by Tradition, is for Wit allow’d.
The Mimick Yearly gives the same Delights;
And in the Mother’s Arms the Clownish Infant frights.
Their Habits (undistinguish’d by degree)
Are plain, alike; the same Simplicity,
Both on the Stage, and in the Pit, you see.
In his white Cloak the Magistrate appears;
The Country Bumpkin the same Liv‘ry wears.
But here, Attir’d beyond our Purse we go,
For useless Ornament and flaunting Show:
We take on trust, in Purple Robes to shine;
And Poor, are yet Ambitious to be fine.
This is a common Vice, tho all things here
Are sold, and sold unconscionably dear.
What will you give that
Cossus
may but view
Your Face, and in the Crowd distinguish you;
May take your Incense like a gracious God;
And answer only with a Civil Nod?
To please our Patrons, in this vicious Age,
We make our Entrance by the Fav’rite Page:
Shave his first down, and when he Polls his Hair,
The Consecrated Locks to Temples bear:
Pay Tributary Cracknels, which he sells;
And, with our Offerings, help to raise his Vails.

Who fears, in Country Towns, a House’s fall,
Or to be caught betwixt a riven Wall?
But we Inhabit a weak City here;
Which Buttresses and Props but scarcely bear:
And ‘tis the Village Masons daily Calling,
To keep the World’s Metropolis from falling,
To cleanse the Gutters, and the Chinks to close;
And, for one Night, secure his Lord’s Repose.
At
Cumæ
we can sleep, quite round the Year,
Nor Falls, nor Fires, nor Nightly Dangers fear;
While rolling Flames from
Roman
Turrets fly,
And the pale Citizens for Buckets cry.
Thy Neighbour has remov’d his Wretched Store,
(Few Hands will rid the Lumber of the Poor)
Thy own third Story smoaks; while thou, supine,
Art drench’d in Fumes of undigested Wine.
For if the lowest Floors already burn,
Cock-lofts and Garrets soon will take the Turn.
Where thy tame Pidgeons next the Tiles were bred,
Which in their Nests unsafe, are timely fled.

Codrus had but one Bed, so short to boot,
That his short Wife’s short Legs hung dangling out;
His Cup-board’s Head six Earthen Pitchers grac‘d,
Beneath ’em was his Trusty Tankard plac’d:
And, to support this Noble Plate, there lay
A bending Chiron cast from honest Clay:
His few Greek Books a rotten Chest contain‘d,
Whose Covers much of mouldiness complain’d:
Where Mice and Rats devour’d Poetick Bread,
And with Heroick Verse luxuriously were fed.
’Tis true, poor
Codrus
nothing had to boast,
And yet poor
Codrus
all that Nothing lost;
Beg’d naked through the Streets of wealthy
Rome;
And found not one to feed, or take him home.

But if the Palace of
Arturius
burn,
The Nobles change their Cloaths, the Matrons mourn;
The City Prætor will no Pleadings hear;
The very Name of Fire we hate and fear:
And look agast, as if the
Gauls
were here.
While yet it bums, th’ officious Nation flies,
Some to condole, and some to bring supplies:
One sends him Marble to rebuild, and one
White naked Statues of the
Parian
Stone,
The Work of
Polyclete,
that seem to live;
While others, Images for Altars give;
One Books and Skreens, and
Pallas
to the Brest;
Another Bags of Gold, and he gives best.
Childless
Arturius,
vastly rich before,
Thus by his Losses multiplies his Store:
Suspected for Accomplice to the Fire,
That burnt his Palace but to build it higher.

But, cou’d you be content to bid adieu
To the dear Play-house, and the Players too,
Sweet Country Seats are purchas’d ev‘ry where,
With Lands and Gardens, at less price, than here
You hire a darksom Doghole by the year.
A small Convenience, decently prepar’d,
A shallow Well, that rises in your yard,
That spreads his easie Crystal Streams around,
And waters all the pretty spot of Ground.
There, love the Fork; thy Garden cultivate,
And give thy frugal Friends a
Pythagorean
Treat.
‘Tis somewhat to be Lord of some small Ground;
In which a Lizard may, at least, turn round.

‘Tis frequent, here, for want of sleep to dye;
Which Fumes of undigested Feasts deny;
And, with imperfect heat, in languid Stomachs fry.
What House secure from noise the poor can keep,
When ev’n the Rich can scarce afford to sleep?
So dear it costs to purchase Rest in
Rome;
And hence the sources of Diseases come.
The Drover who his Fellow-drover meets,
In narrow passages of winding Streets:
The Waggoners, that curse their standing Teams,
Would wake ev’n drowsie
Drusus
from his Dreams.
And yet the Wealthy will not brook delay;
But sweep above our Heads, and make their way;
In lofty Litters born, and read and write,
Or sleep at ease: The Shutters make it Night.
Yet still he reaches, first, the Publick Place:
The prease before him stops the Client’s pace.
The Crowd that follows, crush his panting sides,
And trip his heels; he walks not, but he rides.
One elbows him, one justles in the Shole:
A Rafter breaks his Head, or Chairman’s Pole:
Stockin’d with loads of fat Town-dirt he goes;
And some Rogue-Souldier, with his Hobnail’d Shoos,
Indents his Legs behind in bloody rows.
See with what Smoke our Doles we celebrate:
A hundred Ghests, invited, walk in state:
A hundred hungry Slaves, with their Dutch Kitchins
wait.
Huge Pans the Wretches on their heads must bear;
Which scarce Gygantick
Corbulo
cou’d rear:
Yet they must walk upright beneath the load;
Nay run, and running blow the sparkling flames abroad.
Their Coats, from botching newly brought, are torn:
Unwieldy Timber-trees, in Waggons born,
Stretch’d at their length, beyond their Carriage lye;
That nod, and threaten ruin from on high.
For, should their Axel break, its overthrow
Wou’d crush, and pound to dust, the Crowd below;
Nor Friends their Friends, nor Sires their Sons cou’d
know:
Nor Limbs, nor Bones, nor Carcass wou’d remain:
But a mash’d heap, a Hotchpotch of the Slain.
One vast destruction; not the Soul alone,
But Bodies, like the Soul, invisible are flown.
Mean time, unknowing of their Fellows Fate,
The Servants wash the Platter, scour the Plate,
Then blow the Fire, with puffing Cheeks, and lay
The Rubbers, and the Bathing-sheets display;
And oyl them first; and each is handy in his way.
But he, for whom this busie care they take,
Poor Ghost, is wandring by the Stygian Lake:
Affrighted with the Ferryman’s grim Face;
New to the Horrours of that uncouth place;
His passage begs with unregarded Pray’r:
And wants two Farthings to discharge his Fare.

Return we to the Dangers of the Night;
And, first, behold our Houses dreadful height:
From whence come broken Potsherds tumbling down;
And leaky Ware, from Garret Windows thrown:
Well may they break our Heads, that mark the flinty
Stone.
‘Tis want of Sence to sup abroad too late;
Unless thou first hast settled thy Estate.
As many Fates attend, thy Steps to meet,
As there are waking Windows in the Street.
Bless the good Gods, and think thy chance is rare
To have a Piss-pot only for thy share.

The scouring Drunkard, if he does not fight
Before his Bed-time, takes no rest that Night,
Passing the tedious Hours in greater pain
Than stem
Achilles,
when his Friend was slain:
‘Tis so ridiculous, but so true withall,
A Bully cannot sleep without a Braul:
Yet tho his youthful Blood be fir’d with Wine,
He wants not Wit, the Danger to decline:
Is cautious to avoid the Coach and Six,
And on the Lacquies will no Quarrel fix.
His Train of Flambeaus, and Embroider’d Coat
May Priviledge my Lord to walk secure on Foot.
But me, who must by Moon-light homeward bend,
Or lighted only with a Candle’s end,
Poor me he fights, if that be fighting, where
He only Cudgels, and I only bear.
He stands, and bids me stand: I must abide;
For he’s the stronger, and is Drunk beside.

Where did you whet your Knife to Night, he cries,
And shred the Leeks that in your Stomach rise?
Whose windy Beans have stuff’t your Guts, and where
Have your black Thumbs been dipt in Vinegar?
With what Companion Cobler have you fed,
On old Ox-cheeks, or He-Goats tougher Head?
What, are you Dumb? Quick with your Answer, quick,
Before my Foot Salutes you with a Kick.
Say, in what nasty Cellar, under Ground,
Or what Church-Porch, your Rogueship may be found?
Answer, or Answer not, ‘tis all the same:
He lays me on, and makes me bear the blame.
Before the Bar, for beating him, you come;
This is a Poor Man’s Liberty in
Rome.
You beg his Pardon; happy to retreat
With some remaining Teeth, to chew your Meat.

Nor is this all; for, when Retir‘d, you think
To sleep securely; when the Candles wink,
When every Door with Iron Chains is barr’d,
And roaring Taverns are no longer heard;
The Ruffian Robbers by no Justice aw‘d,
And unpaid cut-Throat Soldiers, are abroad;
Those Venal Souls, who, harden’d in each ill
To save Complaints and Prosecution, kill.
Chas’d from their Woods and Bogs, the Padders come
To this vast City, as their Native Home:
To live at ease, and safely sculk in
Rome.
The Forge in Fetters only is employ’d;
Our Iron Mines exhausted and destroy’d
In Shackles; for these Villains scarce allow
Goads for the Teams, and Plough-shares for the Plough.
Oh happy Ages of our Ancestours,
Beneath the Kings and Tribunitial Pow’rs!
One Jayl did all their Criminals restrain;
Which, now, the Walls of
Rome
can scarce contain.

More I cou’d say, more Causes I cou’d show
For my departure; but the Sun is low:
The Waggoner grows weary of my stay;
And whips his Horses forwards on their way.