Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

John Dryden (1631–1700). The Poems of John Dryden. 1913.

Translations

From Juvenal: The Tenth Satyr

ARGUMENT of the Tenth Satyr

The Poet’s Design, in this Divine Satyr, is to represent the various Wishes and Desires of Mankind; and to set out the Folly of ’em. He runs through all the several Heads of Riches, Honours, Eloquence, Fame for Martial Atchievements, Long-Life, and Beauty; and gives Instances, in Each, how frequently they have prov’d the Ruin of those that Own’d them. He concludes therefore, that since we generally chuse so ill for our selves, we shou’d do better to leave it to the Gods, to make the choice for us. All we can safely ask of Heaven lies within a very small Compass. ’Tis but Health of Body and Mind.—And if we have these, ’tis not much matter what we want besides: For we have already enough to make us Happy.

LOOK round the Habitable World, how few

Know their own Good; or knowing it, pursue.

How void of Reason are our Hopes and Fears!

What in the Conduct of our Life appears

So well design’d, so luckily begun,

But, when we have our wish, we wish undone?

Whole Houses, of their whole Desires possest,

Are often Ruin’d, at their own Request.

In Wars, and Peace, things hurtful we require,

When made Obnoxious to our own Desire.

With Laurels some have fatally been Crown’d;

Some who the depths of Eloquence have found,

In that unnavigable Stream were Drown’d.

The Brawny Fool, who did his Vigour boast,

In that Presumeing Confidence was lost:

But more have been by Avarice opprest,

And Heaps of Money crouded in the Chest:

Unwieldy Sums of Wealth, which higher mount

Than Files of Marshall’d Figures can account.

To which the Stores of Crœsus, in the Scale,

Wou’d look like little Dolphins, when they sail

In the vast Shadow of the British Whale.

For this, in Nero’s Arbitrary time,

When Virtue was a Guilt, and Wealth a Crime,

A Troop of Cut-Throat Guards were sent, to seize

The Rich Mens Goods, and gut their Palaces:

The Mob, Commission’d by the Government,

Are seldom to an Empty Garret sent.

The Fearful Passenger, who Travels late,

Charg’d with the Carriage of a Paltry Plate,

Shakes at the Moonshine shadow of a Rush;

And sees a Red-Coat rise from every Bush:

The Beggar Sings, ev’n when he sees the place

Beset with Thieves, and never mends his pace.

Of all the Vows, the first and chief Request

Of each, is to be Richer than the rest:

And yet no doubts the Poor Man’s Draught controul,

He dreads no Poison in his homely Bowl,

Then fear the deadly Drug, when Gems Divine

Enchase the Cup, and sparkle in the Wine.

Will you not now, the pair of Sages praise,

Who the same End pursu’d, by several Ways?

One pity’d, one contemn’d the Woful Times:

One laugh’d at Follies, one lamented Crimes:

Laughter is easie; but the Wonder lies,

What stores of Brine supplyd the Weepers Eyes.

Democritus cou’d feed his Spleen, and shake

His sides and shoulders till he felt ’em ake;

Tho in his Country Town no Lictors were,

Nor Rodsnor Axnor Tribune did appear;

Nor all the Foppish Gravity of show,

Which cunning Magistrates on Crowds bestow:

What had he done, had he beheld, on high

Our Prætor seated, in Mock Majesty;

His Charriot rowling o’re the Dusty place

While, with dumb Pride, and a set formal Face,

He moves, in the dull Ceremonial track,

With Jove’s Embroyder’d Coat upon his back:

A Sute of Hangings had not more opprest

His Shoulders, than that long, Laborious Vest.

A heavy Gugaw, (call’d a Crown) that spred

About his Temples, drown’d his narrow Head:

And wou’d have crush’d it, with the Massy Freight,

But that a sweating Slave sustain’d the weight:

A Slave in the same Chariot seen to ride,

To mortifie the mighty Madman’s Pride.

Add now th’ Imperial Eagle, rais’d on high,

With Golden Beak (the Mark of Majesty)

Trumpets before, and on the Left and Right,

A Cavalcade of Nobles, all in White:

In their own Natures false, and flatt’ring Tribes,

But made his Friends, by Places and by Bribes.

In his own Age, Democritus cou’d find

Sufficient cause to laugh at Humane kind:

Learn from so great a Wit; a Land of Bogs

With Ditches fenc’d, a Heaven Fat with Fogs,

May form a Spirit to sway the State;

And make the Neighb’ring Monarchs fear their Fate.

He laughs at all the Vulgar Cares and Fears;

At their vain Triumphs, and their vainer Tears:

An equal Temper in his Mind he found,

When Fortune flatter’d him, and when she frown’d.

’Tis plain from hence that what our Vows request,

Are hurtful things, or Useless at the best.

Some ask for Envy’d Pow’r; which publick Hate

Pursues, and hurries headlong to their Fate:

Down go the Titles; and the Statue Crown’d,

Is by base Hands in the next River Drown’d.

The Guiltless Horses, and the Chariot Wheel,

The same Effects of Vulgar Fury feel:

The Smith prepares his Hammer for the Stroke,

While the Lung’d Bellows hissing Fire provoke;

Sejanus, almost first of Roman Names,

The great Sejanus crackles in the Flames:

Form’d in the Forge, the Pliant Brass is laid

On Anvils; and of Head and Limbs are made

Pans, Cans, and Pispots, a whole Kitchin Trade.

Adorn your Doors with Laurels; and a Bull

Milk white, and large, lead to the Capitol;

Sejanus with a Rope is drag’d along,

The Sport and Laughter of the giddy Throng!

Good Lord, they Cry, what Ethiop Lips he has,

How foul a Snout, and what a hanging Face!

By Heav’n, I never cou’d endure his sight;

But say, how came his Monstrous Crimes to Light?

What is the Charge, and who the Evidence

(The Saviour of the Nation and the Prince?)

Nothing of this; but our Old Cæsar sent

A Noisie Letter to his Parliament:

Nay, Sirs, if Cæsar writ, I ask no more,

He’s Guilty: and the Question’s out of Door.

How goes the Mob? (for that’s a Mighty thing.)

When the King’s Trump, the Mob are for the King:

They follow Fortune, and the Common Cry

Is still against the Rogue Condemn’d to Dye.

But the same very Mob, that Rascal crowd,

Had cry’d Sejanus, with a Shout as loud;

Had his Designs (by Fortune’s favour Blest)

Succeeded, and the Prince’s Age opprest,

But long, long since, the Times have chang’d their Face,

The People grown Degenerate and base;

Not suffer’d now the Freedom of their choice,

To make their Magistrates, and sell their Voice.

Our Wise Fore-Fathers, Great by Sea and Land,

Had once the Pow’r and absolute Command;

All Offices of Trust, themselves dispos’d;

Rais’d whom they pleas’d, and whom they pleas’d, Depos’d.

But we, who give our Native Rights away,

And our Inslav’d Posterity betray,

Are now reduc’d to beg an Alms, and go

On Holidays to see a Puppet show.

There was a Damn’d Design, crys one, no doubt;

For Warrants are already Issued out:

I met Brutidius in a Mortal fright;

He’s dipt for certain, and plays least in sight:

I fear the Rage of our offended Prince,

Who thinks the Senate slack in his defence!

Come let us haste, our Loyal Zeal to show,

And spurn the Wretched Corps of Cæsar’s Foe:

But let our Slaves be present there, lest they

Accuse their Masters, and for Gain betray.

Such were the Whispers of those jealous Times,

About Sejanus Punishment, and Crimes.

Now tell me truly, wou’dst thou change thy Fate

To be, like him, first Minister of State?

To have thy Levees Crowded with resort

Of a depending, gaping, servile Court:

Dispose all Honours of the Sword and Gown,

Grace with a Nod, and Ruin with a Frown:

To hold thy Prince in Pupill-Age, and sway

That Monarch, whom the Master’d World obey?

While he, intent on secret Lusts alone,

Lives to himself, abandoning the Throne;

Coopt in a narrow Isle, observing Dreams

With flattering Wisards, and erecting Schemes!

I well believe, thou wou’d’st be Great as he;

For every Man’s a Fool to that Degree;

All wish the dire Prerogative to kill;

Ev’n they wou’d have the Pow’r, who want the Will:

But wou’dst thou have thy Wishes understood,

To take the Bad together with the Good?

Wou’dst thou not rather choose a small Renown,

To be the May’r of some poor Paltry Town,

Bigly to Look, and Barb’rously to speak;

To pound false Weights, and scanty Measures break?

Then, grant we that Sejanus went astray,

In ev’ry Wish, and knew not how to pray:

For he who grasp’d the World’s exhausted Store,

Yet never had enough, but wish’d for more,

Rais’d a Top-heavy Tower, of monst’rous height,

Which Mouldr’ing, crush’d him underneath the Weight.

What did the mighty Pompey’s Fall beget?

And ruin’d him, who Greater than the Great,

The stubborn Pride of Roman Nobles broke;

And bent their Haughty Necks beneath his Yoke?

What else but his immoderate Lust of Pow’r,

Pray’rs made, and granted in a Luckless Hour?

For few Usurpers to the Shades descend

By a dry Death, or with a quiet End.

The Boy, who scarce has paid his Entrance down

To his proud Pedant, or declin’d a Noun,

(So small an Elf, that when the days are foul,

He and his Satchel must be born to School,)

Yet prays, and hopes, and aims at nothing less,

To prove a Tully, or Demosthenes:

But both those Orators, so much renown’d,

In their own Depths of Eloquence were Drown’d:

The Hand and Head were never lost, of those

Who dealt in Dogrel, or who punn’d in Prose:

Fortune foretun’d the dying Notes of Rome:

Till I, thy Consul sole, consol’d thy doom.

His Fate had crept below the lifted Swords,

Had all his Malice been to Murther words.

I rather would be Mævius, Thrash for Rhimes

Like his, the scorn and scandal of the Times,

Than that Philippique, fatally Divine,

Which is inscrib’d the Second, should be Mine.

Nor he, the Wonder of the Grecian throng,

Who drove them with the Torrent of his Tongue,

Who shook the Theaters, and sway’d the State

Of Athens, found a more Propitious Fate.

Whom, born beneath a boding Horoscope,

His Sire, the Blear-Ey’d Vulcan of a Shop,

From Mars his Forge, sent to Minerva’s Schools,

To learn th’ unlucky Art of wheedling Fools.

With Itch of Honour, and Opinion, Vain,

All things beyond their Native worth we strain:

The Spoils of War, brought to Feretrian Jove

An empty Coat of Armour hung above

The Conquerors Chariot, and in Triumph born,

A Streamer from a boarded Gally torn,

A Chap-faln Beaver loosely hanging by

The cloven Helm, an Arch of Victory,

On whose high Convex sits a Captive Foe,

And sighing casts a Mournful Look below;

Of ev’ry Nation, each Illustrious Name,

Such Toys as these have cheated into Fame:

Exchanging solid Quiet, to obtain

The Windy satisfaction of the Brain.

So much the Thirst of Honour Fires the Blood;

So many wou’d be Great, so few be Good.

For who wou’d Virtue for her self regard,

Or Wed, without the Portion of Reward?

Yet this Mad Chace of Fame, by few pursu’d,

Has drawn Destruction on the Multitude:

This Avarice of Praise in Times to come,

Those long Inscriptions, crowded on the Tomb,

Shou’d some Wild Fig-Tree take her Native bent,

And heave below the gaudy Monument,

Wou’d crack the Marble Titles, and disperse

The Characters of all the lying Verse.

For Sepulchres themselves must crumbling fall

In Times Abyss, the common Grave of all.

Great Hannibal within the Ballance lay;

And tell how many Pounds his Ashes weigh;

Whom Affrick was not able to contain,

Whose length runs Level with th’ Atlantick main,

And wearies fruitful Nilus, to convey

His Sun-beat Waters by so long a way;

Which Ethiopia’s double Clime divides,

And Elephants in other Mountains hides.

Spain first he won, the Pyræneans past,

And steepy Alps, the Mounds that Nature cast:

And with Corroding Juices, as he went,

A passage through the living Rocks he rent.

Then, like a Torrent, rowling from on high,

He pours his head-long Rage on Italy;

In three Victorious Battels overrun;

Yet still uneasie, Cries, There’s nothing done,

Till, level with the Ground, their Gates are laid;

And Punick Flags on Roman Tow’rs displaid.

Ask what a Face belong’d to this high Fame;

His Picture scarcely wou’d deserve a Frame:

A Sign-Post Dawber wou’d disdain to paint

The one-Ey’d Heroe on his Elephant.

Now what’s his End, O Charming Glory, say

What rare fifth Act, to Crown this huffing Play?

In one deciding Battel overcome,

He flies, is banisht from his Native home:

Begs refuge in a Foreign Court, and there

Attends, his mean Petition to prefer;

Repuls’d by surly Grooms, who wait before

The sleeping Tyrant’s interdicted Door.

What wondrous sort of Death has Heav’n design’d,

Distinguish’d from the Herd of Humane Kind,

For so untam’d, so turbulent a Mind!

Nor Swords at hand, nor hissing Darts afar,

Are doom’d t’ Avenge the tedious bloody War,

But Poyson, drawn through a Rings hollow plate,

Must finish him; a sucking Infant’s Fate.

Go, climb the rugged Alps, Ambitious fool,

To please the Boys, and be a Theme at School.

One World suffis’d not Alexander’s Mind;

Coop’t up, he seem’d in Earth and Seas confin’d:

And, strugling, stretch’d his restless Limbs about

The narrow Globe, to find a passage out.

Yet, enter’d in the Brick-built Town, he try’d

The Tomb, and found the strait dimensions wide:

“Death only this Mysterious Truth unfolds,

“The mighty Soul, how small a Body holds.

Old Greece a Tale of Athos wou’d make out,

Cut from the Continent, and Sail’d about;

Seas hid with Navies, Chariots passing o’re

The Channel, on a Bridge from shore to shore.

Rivers, whose depth no sharp beholder sees,

Drunk at an Armies Dinner, to the Lees;

With a long Legend of Romantick things,

Which, in his Cups, the Bowsy Poet sings.

But how did he return, this haughty Brave

Who whipt the Winds, and made the Sea his Slave?

(Tho’ Neptune took unkindly to be bound;

And Eurus never such hard usage found

In his Eolian Prisons under ground;)

What God so mean, ev’n he who points the way,

So Merciless a Tyrant to Obey!

But how return’d he, let us ask again?

In a poor Skiff he pass’d the bloody Main,

Choak’d with the slaughter’d Bodies of his Train.

For Fame he pray’d, but let th’ Event declare

He had no mighty penn’worth of his Pray’r.

Jove, grant me length of Life, and Years good store

Heap on my bending Back, I ask no more.

Both Sick and Healthful, Old and Young, conspire

In this one silly, mischievous desire.

Mistaken Blessing, which Old Age they call,

’Tis a long, nasty, darksom Hospital,

A ropy Chain of Rhumes; a Visage rough,

Deform’d, Unfeatur’d, and a Skin of Buff.

A stitch-fal’n Cheek, that hangs below the Jaw;

Such Wrinckles, as a skillful Hand wou’d draw

For an old Grandam Ape, when, with a Grace,

She sits at squat, and scrubs her Leathern Face.

In Youth, distinctions infinite abound;

No Shape, or Feature, just alike are found;

The Fair, the Black, the Feeble, and the Strong;

But the same foulness does to Age belong,

The self same Palsie, both in Limbs, and Tongue.

The Skull and Forehead one Bald Barren plain;

And Gums unarm’d to Mumble Meat in vain:

Besides th’ Eternal Drivel, that supplies

The dropping Beard, from Nostrils, Mouth, and Eyes.

His Wife and Children loath him, and, what’s worse,

Himself does his offensive Carrion Curse!

Flatt’rers forsake him too; for who would kill

Himself, to be Remembred in a Will?

His taste, not only pall’d to Wine and Meat,

But to the Relish of a Nobler Treat.

The limber Nerve, in vain provok’d to rise,

Inglorious from the Field of Battel flies:

Poor Feeble Dotard, how cou’d he advance

With his Blew head-piece, and his broken Lance?

Add, that endeavouring still without effect

A Lust more sordid justly we suspect.

Those Senses lost, behold a new defeat,

The Soul, dislodging from another seat.

What Musick, or Enchanting Voice, can chear

A Stupid, Old, Impenetrable Ear?

No matter in what Place, or what Degree

Of the full Theater he sits to see;

Cornets and Trumpets cannot reach his Ear:

Under an Actor’s Nose he’s never near.

His Boy must bawl, to make him understand

The Hour o’ th’ Day, or such a Lord’s at hand:

The little Blood that creeps within his Veins,

Is but just warm’d in a hot Feaver’s pains.

In fine, he wears no Limb about him sound:

With Sores and Sicknesses beleaguer’d round:

Ask me their Names, I sooner cou’d relate

How many Drudges on Salt Hippia wait;

What Crowds of Patients the Town Doctor kills,

Or how, last fall, he rais’d the Weekly Bills.

What Provinces by Basilus were spoil’d,

What Herds of Heirs by Guardians are beguil’d:

How many bouts a Day that Bitch has try’d;

How many Boys that Pedagogue can ride!

What Lands and Lordships for their Owners know

My Quondam Barber, but his worship now.

This Dotard of his broken Back complains,

One his Legs fail, and one his Shoulder pains:

Another is of both his Eyes bereft;

And Envies who has one for Aiming left.

A Fifth with trembling Lips expecting stands;

As in his Child-hood, cram’d by others hands;

One, who at sight of Supper open’d wide

His Jaws before, and Whetted Grinders try’d;

Now only Yawns, and waits to be supply’d:

Like a young Swallow, when with weary Wings

Expected Food her fasting Mother brings.

His loss of Members is a heavy Curse,

But all his Faculties decay’d, a worse!

His Servants Names he has forgotten quite;

Knows not his Friend who supp’d with him last Night.

Not ev’n the Children, he Begot and Bred;

Or his Will knows ’em not: For, in their stead,

In Form of Law, a common Hackney Jade,

Sole Heir, for secret Services, is made:

So lewd, and such a batter’d Brothel Whore,

That she defies all Commers, at her Door.

Well, yet suppose his Senses are his own,

He lives to be chief Mourner for his Son:

Before his Face his Wife and Brother burns;

He Numbers all his Kindred in their Urns.

These are the Fines he pays for living long;

And dragging tedious Age, in his own wrong:

Griefs always Green, a House-hold still in Tears,

Sad Pomps, a Threshold throng’d with daily Biers;

And Liveries of Black for Length of Years.

Next to the Raven’s Age, the Pylian King

Was longest liv’d of any two leg’d thing;

Blest, to Defraud the Grave so long, to Mount

His Numbred Years, and on his Right Hand Count;

Three Hundred Seasons, guzling Must of Wine:

But, hold a while, and hear himself Repine

At Fates Unequal Laws; and at the Clue

Which, Merciless in length, the midmost Sister drew.

When his Brave Son upon the Fun’ral Pyre

He saw extended, and his Beard on Fire;

He turn’d, and Weeping, ask’d his Friends, what Crime

Had Curs’d his Age to this unhappy Time?

Thus Mourn’d old Peleus for Achilles slain,

And thus Ulysses’s Father did complain.

How Fortunate an End had Priam made,

Among his Ancestors a mighty shade,

While Troy yet stood; When Hector with the Race

Of Royal Bastards, might his Funeral Grace:

Amidst the Tears of Trojan Dames inurn’d,

And by his Loyal Daughters truly mourn’d.

Had Heaven so Blest him, he had Dy’d before

The fatal Fleet to Sparta Paris bore.

But mark what Age produc’d; he liv’d to see

His Town in Flames, his falling Monarchy:

In fine, the feeble Syre, reduc’d by Fate,

To change his Scepter for a Sword, too late,

His last Effort before Jove’s Altar tries

A Souldier half, and half a Sacrifice:

Falls like an Oxe, that waits the coming blow;

Old and unprofitable to the Plough.

At least, he Dy’d a Man, his Queen surviv’d,

To Howl, and in a barking Body liv’d.

I hasten to our own; Nor will relate

Great Mithridates, and Rich Crœssus Fate;

Whom Solon wisely Counsell’d to attend

The Name of Happy, till he knew his End.

That Marius was an Exile, that he fled,

Was ta’ne, in Ruin’d Carthage beg’d his Bread,

All these were owing to a Life too long:

For whom had Rome beheld so Happy, Young!

High in his Chariot and with Lawrel Crown’d,

When he had led the Cimbrian Captives round

The Roman Streets; descending from his State,

In that Blest Hour he should have beg’d his Fate;

Then, then, he might have dy’d of all admir’d,

And his Triumphant Soul with Shouts expir’d.

Campania, Fortunes Malice to prevent,

To Pompey an indulgent Feavour sent;

But publick Pray’rs impos’d on Heav’n, to give

Their much Lov’d Leader an unkind Reprieve.

The Cities Fate and his, conspir’d to save

The Head, reserv’d for an Egyptian Slave.

Cethegus, tho a Traytor to the State,

And Tortur’d, scap’d this Ignominious Fate:

And Sergius, who a bad Cause bravely try’d,

All of a Piece, and undiminish’d Dy’d.

To Venus, the fond Mother makes a Pray’r,

That all her Sons and Daughters may be Fair:

True, for the Boys a Mumbling Vow she sends;

But, for the Girls, the Vaulted Temple rends:

They must be finish’d Pieces: ’Tis allow’d

Diana’s Beauty made Latona Proud;

And pleas’d, to see the Wond’ring People Pray

To the New-rising Sister of the Day.

And yet Lucretia’s Fate wou’d bar that Vow:

And fair Virginia wou’d her Fate bestow

On Rutila; and change her Faultless Make

For the foul rumple of Her Camel back.

But, for his Mother’s Boy, the Beau, what frights

His Parents have by Day, what Anxious Nights!

Form join’d with Virtue is a sight too rare:

Chast is no Epithete to sute with Fair.

Suppose the same Traditionary strain

Of Rigid Manners in the House remain;

Inveterate Truth, an Old plain Sabine’s Heart;

Suppose that Nature, too, has done her part;

Infus’d into his Soul a sober Grace,

And blusht a Modest Blood into his Face,

(For Nature is a better Guardian far,

Than Sawcy Pedants, or dull Tutors are:)

Yet still the Youth must ne’re arrive at Man;

(So much Almighty Bribes and Presents can:)

Ev’n with a Parent, where Perswasions fail,

Mony is impudent, and will prevail.

We never Read of such a Tyrant King,

Who guelt a boy deform’d, to hear him Sing.

Nor Nero, in his more Luxurious Rage,

E’re made a Mistress of an ugly Page:

Sporus, his Spouse, nor Crooked was, nor Lame,

With Mountain Back, and Belly, from the Game

Cross-barr’d: But both his Sexes well became.

Go, boast your Springal, by his Beauty Curst

To Ills; nor think I have declar’d the worst:

His Form procures him Journey-Work; a strife

Betwixt Town-Madams and the Merchant’s Wife:

Guess, when he undertakes this publick War,

What furious Beasts offended Cuckolds are.

Adult’rers are with Dangers round beset;

Born under Mars, they cannot scape the Net;

And from Revengeful Husbands oft have try’d

Worse handling, than severest Laws provide:

One stabs; one slashes; one, with Cruel Art,

Makes Colon suffer for the Peccant part.

But your Endymion, your smooth, Smock-fac’d boy,

Unrivall’d, shall a Beauteous Dame enjoy:

Not so: One more Salacious, Rich, and Old,

Out-bids, and buys her Pleasure for her Gold:

Now he must Moil, and Drudge, for one he loaths,

She keeps him High, in Equipage, and Cloaths:

She Pawns her Jewels, and her Rich Attire,

And thinks the Workman worthy of his Hire:

In all things else immoral, stingy, mean;

But, in her Lusts, a Conscionable Quean.

She may be handsom, yet be Chast, you say;

Good Observator, not so fast away:

Did it not cost the Modest Youth his Life,

Who shun’d th’ embraces of his Father’s Wife?

And was not t’other Stripling forc’d to fly,

Who, coldly, did his Patron’s Queen deny,

And pleaded Laws of Hospitality?

The Ladies charg’d ’em home, and turn’d the Tail:

With shame they redn’d, and with spight grew Pale.

’Tis Dang’rous to deny the longing Dame;

She loses Pity, who has lost her Shame.

Now Silius wants thy Counsel, give Advice;

Wed Cæsar’s Wife, or Dye; the Choice is nice.

Her Comet-Eyes she darts on ev’ry Grace;

And takes a fatal liking to his Face.

Adorn’d with Bridal Pomp she sits in State;

The Publick Notaries and Auspex wait:

The Genial Bed is in the Garden drest:

The Portion paid, and ev’ry Rite express’d,

Which in a Roman Marriage is profest.

’Tis no stol’n Wedding, this; rejecting awe,

She scorns to Marry, but in Form of Law:

In this moot case, your Judgment: To refuse

Is present Death, besides the Night you lose.

If you consent, ’tis hardly worth your pain;

A day or two of Anxious Life you gain:

Till lowd Reports through all the Town have past,

And reach the Prince: For Cuckolds hear the last.

Indulge thy Pleasure, Youth, and take thy swing;

For not to take, is but the self same thing;

Inevitable Death before thee lies;

But looks more kindly through a Ladies Eyes.

What then remains? Are we depriv’d of Will,

Must we not Wish, for fear of wishing Ill?

Receive my Counsel, and securely move;

Intrust thy Fortune to the Pow’rs above.

Leave them to manage for thee, and to grant

What their unerring Wisdom sees thee want:

In Goodness as in Greatness they excel;

Ah that we lov’d our selves but half so well!

We, blindly by our headstrong Passions led,

Are hot for Action, and desire to Wed;

Then wish for Heirs: But to the Gods alone

Our future Offspring, and our Wives are known;

Th’ audacious Strumpet, and ungracious Son.

Yet not to rob the Priests of pious Gain,

That Altars be not wholly built in vain;

Forgive the Gods the rest, and stand confin’d

To Health of Body, and Content of Mind:

A Soul, that can securely Death defie,

And count it Nature’s Priviledge, to Dye;

Serene and Manly, harden’d to sustain

The load of Life, and Exercis’d in Pain:

Guiltless of Hate, and Proof against Desire;

That all things weighs, and nothing can admire:

That dares prefer the Toils of Hercules

To Dalliance, Banquet, and Ignoble ease.

The Path to Peace is Virtue: What I show,

Thy Self may freely on Thy Self bestow:

Fortune was never Worshipp’d by the Wise;

But, set aloft by Fools, Usurps the Skies.