Satire 8 Dryden trans.
What’s the advantage, or the real good,
In tracing from the source our ancient blood?
To have our ancestors in paint or stone,
Preserv'd as relics, or like monsters shown?
The brave Æmilii, as in triumph plac'd,
The virtuous Curii, half by time defac'd;
Corvinus, with a mouldering nose, that bears
Injurious scars, the sad effects of years;
And Galba, grinning, without nose or ears?

Vain are their hopes who fancy to inherit,
By trees of pedigrees, or fame or merit;
Though plodding heralds through each branch may trace
Old captains, and dictators of their race,
While their ill lives that family bely,
And grieve the brass which stands dishonour'd by.

'Tis mere burlesque, that to our generals' praise,
Their progeny immortal statues raise;
Yet (far from that old gallantry) delight
To game before their images all night,
And steal to bed at the approach of day,
The hour when these their ensigns did display.
Why should soft Fabius impudently bear
Names gain’d by conquests in the Gallic war?
Why lays he claim to Hercules’s strain,
Yet dares be base, effeminate, and vain?
The glorious altar to that hero built,
Adds but a greater lustre to his guilt,
Whose tender limbs, and polish’d skin disgrace
The grisly beauty of his manly race;
And who by practicing the dismal skill
Of poisoning, and such treacherous ways to kill,
Make his unhappy kindred marble sweat,
When his degenerate head by theirs is set.

Long galleries of ancestors, and all
The follies which ill grace a country hall,
Challenge no wonder or esteem from me;
‘Virtue alone is true nobility.’
Live therefore well: to men and gods appear,
Such as good Paulus, Cossus, Drusus , were;
And in thy consular triumphal show,
Let these before thy father's statues go:
Place 'em before the ensigns of the state ,
As choosing rather to be good than great.
Convince the world that you're devout and true,
Be just in all you say, and all you do;
Whatever be your birth, you're sure to be
A peer of the first magnitude to me:
Rome for your sake shall push her conquests on,
And bring new titles home from nations won,
To dignify so eminent a son.
With your bless'd name shall every region sound,
Loud as mad Egypt, when her priests have found
A new Osiris , for the ox they drown'd.
But who will call those noble, who deface,
By meaner acts, the glories of their race?
Whose only title to our father's fame
Is couch'd in the dead letters of their name?
A dwarf as well may for a giant pass;
A Negro for a swan; a crook-back’d lass
Be call'd Europa; and a cur may bear
The name of tiger, lion, or whate'er
Denotes the noblest or the fiercest beast:
Be therefore careful, lest the world in jest
Should thee just so with the mock-titles greet,
Of Camerinus, or of conquer’d Crete.
‘To whom is this advice and censure due?’
Rubellius Plancus, 'tis applied to you:
Who think your person second to divine,
Because descended from the Drusian line;
Though yet you no illustrious act have done,
To make the world distinguish Julia's son
From the vile offspring of a trull, who sits
By the town wall, and for her living knits.
‘You are poor rogues,’ you cry, ‘the baser scum
‘And inconsiderable dregs of Rome;
Who know not from what corner of the earth
The obscure wretch, who got you, stole his birth:
Mine I derive from Cecrops.’—May your grace
Live, and enjoy the splendor of your race.
Yet of these base plebeians we have known
Some, who, by charming eloquence, have grown
Great senators, and honours to that gown:
Some at the bar with subtilty defend
The cause of an unlearned noble friend;
Or on the bench the knotty laws untie;
Others their stronger youth to arms apply,
Go to Euphrates, or those forces join
Which garrison the conquests near the Rhine.
While you, Rubellius, on your birth rely;
Though you resemble your great family
No more, than those rough statues on the road
(Which we call Mercuries) are like that god:
Your blockhead though excels in this alone,
You are a living statue—that of stone.
Great son of Troy! who ever praised a beast
For being of a race above the rest,
But rather meant his courage and his force?
To give an instance: we commend a horse
(Without regard of pasture or of breed)
For his undaunted mettle and his speed;
Who wins most plates with greatest ease, and first
Prints with his hoofs his conquest on the dust.
But if fleet Dragon's progeny at last
Proves jaded, and in frequent matches cast,
No favour for the stallion we retain,
And no respect for the degenerate strain;
The worthless brute is from Newmarket brought,
And at an under-rate in Smithfield bought,
To turn a mill, or drag a loaded life,
Beneath two panniers and a baker's wife.

That we may therefore you, not yours, admire;
First, sir, some honour of your own acquire;
Add to that stock which justly we bestow
On those bless'd shades to whom you all things owe.

This may suffice the haughty youth to shame,
Whose swelling veins (if we may credit Fame)
Burst almost with the vanity and pride,
That their rich blood to Nero's is allied:
The rumour's likely; for ‘We seldom find
Much sense with an exalted fortune join’d.’

But, Ponticus, I would not you should raise
Your credit by hereditary praise;
Let your own acts immortalize your name;
‘’Tis poor relying on another's fame;’
For, take the pillars but away, and all
The superstructure must in ruins fall;
As a vine droops, when by divorce remov'd
From the embraces of the elm she lov'd.

Be a good soldier, or upright trustee,
An arbitrator from corruption free;
And if a witness in a doubtful cause,
Where a brib'd judge means to elude the laws,
Though Phalaris’s brazen bull were there,
And he would dictate what he'd have you swear,
Be not so profligate, but rather choose
To guard your honour, and your life to lose,
Rather than let your virtue be betray'd;
Virtue, the noblest cause for which you're made.

Improperly we measure life by breath ,
Such do not truly live who merit death;
Though they their wanton senses nicely please
With all the charms of luxury and ease;
Though mingled flowers adorn their careless brow,
And round them costly sweets neglected flow,
As if they in their funeral state were laid;
And to the world, as they're to virtue, dead.

When you the province you expect obtain,
From passion and from avarice refrain;
Let our associates’ poverty provoke
Thy generous heart not to increase their yoke,
Since riches cannot rescue from the grave,
Which claims alike the monarch and the slave.

To what the laws enjoin, submission pay;
And what the senate shall command, obey;
Think what rewards upon the good attend,
And how those fall unpitied who offend:
Tutor and Capito may warnings be,
Who felt the thunder of the state's decree,
For robbing the Cilicians, though they
(Like lesser pikes) only subsist on prey.
But what avails the rigour of their doom?
Which cannot future violence o'ercome,
Nor give the miserable province ease?
Since what one plunderer left, the next will seize.

Cherippus then in time yourself bethink,
And what your rags will yield by auction, sink;
Ne'er put yourself to charges to complain
Of wrongs which heretofore you did sustain;
Make not a voyage to detect the theft;
'Tis mad to lavish what their rapine left.

When Rome at first our rich allies subdued,
From gentle taxes noble spoils accrued;
Each wealthy province, but in part oppress'd,
Thought the loss trivial, and enjoy'd the rest.
All treasuries did then with heaps abound;
In every wardrobe costly silks were found;
The least apartment of the meanest house
Could all the wealthy pride of art produce;
Pictures which from Parrhasius did receive
Motion and warmth; and statues taught to live;
Some Polyclete's , some Myron's work declar'd;
In others Phidias’ masterpiece appear'd;
And crowding plate did on the cupboard stand,
Emboss'd by curious Mentor’s artful hand.
Prizes like these oppressors might invite,
These Dolabella’s rapine did excite,
These Anthony for his own theft thought fit,
Verres for these did sacrilege commit;
And when their reigns were ended, ships full fraught
The hidden fruits of their exaction brought,
Which made in peace a treasure richer far
Than what is plunder’d in the rage of war.

This was of old: but our confederates now
Have nothing left but oxen for the plough,
Or some few mares reserved alone for breed:
Yet lest this provident design succeed,
They drive the father of the herd away,
Making both stallion, and his pasture, prey.
Their rapine is so abject and profane,
They nor from trifles, nor from gods refrain;
But the poor Lares from the niches seize,
If they be little images that please.
Such are the spoils which now provoke their theft,
And are the greatest; nay, they're all that’s left.

Thus may you Corinth , or weak Rhodes , oppress,
Who dare not bravely what they feel redress:
(For how can fops thy tyranny control,
Smooth limbs are symptoms of a servile soul)
But trespass not too far on sturdy Spain,
Sclavonia, France; thy gripes from those restrain,
Who with their sweat Rome’s luxury maintain,
And send us plenty, while our wanton day
Is lavish'd at the Circus, or the play.
For should you to extortion be inclin'd,
Your cruel guilt will little booty find,
Since gleaning Marius has already seiz'd
All that from sun-burnt Afric can be squeez'd.

But above all, ‘Be careful to withold
Your talons from the wretched and the bold;
Tempt not the brave and needy to despair;
For, though your violence should leave 'em bare
Of gold and silver, swords and darts remain,
And will revenge the wrongs which they sustain:
The plunder'd still have arms.—

Think not the precept I have here laid down
A fond, uncertain notion of my own;
No, ‘tis a Sibyl's leaf what I relate,
As fix’d and sure as the decrees of fate.

Let none but men of honour you attend,
Choose him that has most virtue for your friend;
And give no way to any darling youth
To sell your favour, and pervert the truth.
Reclaim you wife from strolling up and down,
To all assizes, and through ev'ry town,
With claws like harpies, eager for the prey;
(For which your justice and your fame will pay.)
Keep yourself free from scandals such as these;
Then trace your birth from Picus , if you please.
If he's too modern, and your pride aspire
To seek the author of your being higher,
Choose any Titan who the gods withstood,
To be the founder of your ancient blood,
Prometheus, and that race before the flood;
Or any other story you can find
From heralds, or in poets, to your mind.

But should you prove ambitious, lustful, vain;
Or could you see, with pleasure and disdain,
Rods broke on our associates' bleeding backs,
And headsmen labouring till they blunt their ax:
Your father's glory will your sin proclaim,
And to a clearer light expose your shame;
For, still more public scandal vice extends,
As he is great and noble who offends.

How dare you then your high extraction plead?
Yet blush not when you go to forge a deed,
In the same temple which your grandsire built;
Making his statue privy to the guilt.
Or in a bawdy masquerade are led,
Muffled by night, to some polluted bed.
Fat Lateranus does his revels keep,
Where his forefathers’ peaceful ashes sleep;
Driving himself a chariot down the hill,
And (though a consul) links himself the wheel:
To do him justice, ’tis indeed by night,
Yet the moon sees, and every smaller light
Pries as a witness of the shameful sight.
Nay, when his year of honour's ended, soon
He'll leave that nicety, and mount at noon;
Nor blush should he some grave acquaintance meet,
But (proud of being known) will jerk and greet:
And when his fellow beasts are weary grown,
He'll play the groom, give oats, and rub them down.
If after Numa's ceremonial way
He at Jove's altar would a victim slay,
To no clean goddess he directs his pray'rs,
But by Hippona most devoutly swears;
Or some rank deity, whose filthy face
We suitably o'er stinking stables place.

When he has run his length, and does begin
To steer his course directly for the inn,
(Where they have watch’d, expecting him all night)
A greasy Syrian, ere he can alight,
Presents him essence; while his courteous host
(Well knowing nothing by good breeding's lost)
Tags every sentence with some fawning word,
Such as, ‘My king, my prince,’ at least ‘My lord;’
And a tight maid, ere he for wine can ask,
Guesses his meaning, and unoils the flask.

Some (friends to vice) industriously defend
These innocent diversions, and pretend
That I the tricks of youth too roughly blame,
Alleging that when young we did the same.
I grant we did; yet when that age was past,
The frolic humour did no longer last;
We did not cherish and indulge the crime:
What's foul in acting should be left in time.
‘Tis true, some faults, of course, with childhood end;
We therefore wink at wags when they offend,
And spare the boy, in hopes the man may mend.

But Lateranus (now his vigorous age
Should prompt him for his country to engage,
The circuit of our empire to extend,
And all our lives, in Cæsar’s, to defend),
Mature in riots, places his delight
All day in plying bumpers, and at night
Reels to the bawds, over whose doors are set
Pictures and bills with ‘Here are whores to let.’
Should any desperate unexpected fate
Summon all heads and hands to guard the state,
Cæsar, send quickly to secure the port;
‘But where's the general? Where does he resort?’
Send to the sutler's; there you're sure to find
The bully match'd with rascals of his kind,
Quacks, coffin-makers, fugitives, and sailors;
Rooks, common soldiers, hangmen, thieves, and tailors;
With Cybele's priests, who, wearied with processions,
Drink there, and sleep with knaves of all professions,
A friendly gang! each equal to the best;
And all, who can, have liberty to jest:
One flaggon walks the round (that none should think
They either change, or stint him of his drink)
And lest exceptions may for place be found,
Their stools are all alike, their table round.

What think you, Ponticus, yourself might do,
Should any slave, so lewd, belong to you?
No doubt, you'd send the rogue in fetters bound
To work in Bridewell, or to plough your ground:
But, nobles, you who trace your birth from Troy,
Think, you the great prerogative enjoy
Of doing ill, by virtue of that race;
As if what we esteem in cobblers base,
Would the high family of Brutus grace.

Shameful are these examples; yet we find
(To Rome's disgrace) far worse than these behind:
Poor Damasippus, whom we once have known
Fluttering with coach and six about the town,
Is forc'd to make the stage his last retreat,
And pawns his voice, the all he has, for meat:
For now he must (since his estate is lost)
Or represent, or be himself, a ghost:

And Lentulus acts hanging with such art,
Were I a judge, he should not feign the part.
Nor would I their vile insolence acquit,
Who can with patience, nay diversion, sit,
Applauding my lord's buffoonry for wit.
And clapping farces acted by the court,
While the peers cuff, to make the rabble sport:
Or hirelings, at a prize, their fortunes try;
Certain to fall unpitied if they die;
Since none can have the favourable thought,
That to obey a tyrant's will they fought,
But that their lives they willingly expose,
Brought by the prætors to adorn their shows.

Yet say the stage and lists were both in sight,
And you must either choose to act or fight;
Death never sure bears such a ghastly shape,
That a rank coward basely would escape
By playing a foul harlot's jealous tool,
Or a feign'd Andrew to a real fool.
Yet a peer-actor is no monstrous thing,
Since Rome has own'd a fiddler for a king:
After such pranks, the world itself at best
May be imagined nothing but a jest.

Go to the lists where feats of arms are shown,
There you'll find Gracchus, (from Patrician) grown
A fencer, and the scandal of the town.
Nor will he the Mirmillo's weapons bear,
The modest helmet he disdains to wear;
As Retiarius he attacks his foe:
First waves his trident ready for the throw,
Next casts his net, but neither levell'd right,
He stares about, exposed to public sight,
Then places all his safety in his flight.
‘Room for the noble gladiator! See,
His coat and hatband show his quality:’—
Thus when at last the brave Mirmillo knew
’Twas Gracchus was the wretch he did pursue,
To conquer such a coward grieved him more,
Than if he many glorious wounds had bore.

Had we the freedom to express our mind,
There's not a wretch so much to vice inclin'd,
But will own Seneca did far excel
His pupil, by whose tyranny he fell:
To expiate whose complicated guilt,
With some proportion to the blood he spilt,
Rome should more serpents, apes, and sacks provide
Than one, for the compendious parricide.
'Tis true Orestes a like crime did act;
Yet weigh the cause, there's difference in the fact:
He slew his mother at the gods' command,
They bid him strike, and did direct his hand
To punish falsehood, and appease the ghost
Of his poor father treacherously lost,
Just in the minute when the flowing bowl
With a full tide enlarg'd his cheerful soul.
Yet kill'd he not his sister , or his wife ,
Nor aim'd at any near relation's life:
Orestes, in the heat of all his rage,
Ne’er play'd or sung upon a public stage ;
Never on verse did his wild thoughts employ,
To paint the horrid scene of burning Troy,
Like Nero, who to raise his fancy higher,
And finish the great work, set Rome on fire.
Such crimes make treason just, and might compel
Virginius, Vindex, Galba, to rebel:
For what could Nero's self have acted worse
To aggravate the wretched nation’s curse?

These are the bless'd endowments, studies, arts,
Which exercise our mighty emperor's parts:
Such frolics with his roving genius suit,
On foreign theaters to prostitute
His voice and honour, for the poor renown
Of putting all the Grecian actors down,
And winning at a wake their parsley-crown.
Let this triumphal chaplet find some place
Among the other trophies of thy race;
By thee Domitii's statues shall be laid,
The habit and the mask in which you play'd
Antigone’s, or bold Thyestes' part,
(While your wild nature little wanted art);
And on the marble pillar shall be hung
The lute to which the royal madman sung.

Who, Catiline , can boast a nobler line,
Than thy lewd friend Cethegus's and thine?
Yet you took arms, and did by night conspire
To set our houses and our gods on fire:
(An enterprise which might indeed become
Our enemies the Gauls, not sons of Rome;
To recompense whose barbarous intent,
Pitch'd shirts would be too mild a punishment)
But Tully , our wise consul, watch'd the blow,
With care discover'd, and disarm'd the foe:
Tully, the humble mushroom, scarcely known,
The lowly native of a country town,
(Who, till of late, could never reach the height
Of being honour’d as a Roman knight)
Throughout the trembling city plac'd a guard,
Dealing an equal share to every ward,
And by the peaceful robe got more renown
Within our walls, than young Octavius won
By victories at Actium , or the plain
Of Thessaly , discolour’d by the slain:
Him, therefore, Rome in gratitude decreed
The father of his country, which he freed.

Marius (another consul we admire),
In the same village born, first plough’d for hire;
His next advance was to the soldier’s trade,
Where, if he did not nimbly ply the spade,
His surly officer ne’er fail’d to crack
His knotty cudgel on his tougher back.
Yet he alone secur’d the tottering state,
Withstood the Cimbrians, and redeem’d our fate:
So when the eagles to their quarry flew,
(Who never such a goodly banquet knew)
Only a second laurel did adorn
His colleague Catulus, though nobly born;
He shar’d the pride of the triumphal bay,
But Marius won the glory of the day.

From a mean stock the pious Decii came ;
Small their estates, and vulgar was their name:
Yet such their virtues, that their loss alone
For Rome and all our legions did atone;
Their country’s doom they by their own retriev'd;
Themselves more worth than all the host they sav'd.
The last good king who willing Rome obey’d,
Was the poor offspring of a captive maid;
Yet he those robes of empire justly bore
Which Romulus, our sacred founder, wore:
Nicely he gain’d, and well possess’d the throne,
Not for his father’s merit, but his own;
And reign’d, himself a family alone.

When Tarquin , his proud successor, was quell’d,
And with him lust and tyranny expell’d;
The consul’s sons (who for their country’s good,
And to enhance the honour of their blood,
Should have asserted what their father won;
And, to confirm that liberty, have done
Actions, which Cocles might have wish’d his own;
What might to Mutius wonderful appear;
And what bold Clelia might with envy hear)
Open’d the gates, endeavouring to restore
Their banish’d king, and arbitrary power:
Whilst a poor slave, with scarce a name, betray’d
The horrid ills these well-born rogues had laid;
Who, therefore, for their treason justly bore
The rods and axe, ne’er us’d in Rome before.

If you have strength Achilles’ arms to bear,
And courage to sustain a ten years’ war;
Though foul Thersites got thee, thou shalt be
More lov'd by all, and more esteem’d by me,
Than if by chance you from some hero came,
In nothing like your father but his name.

Boast then your blood, and your long lineage stretch
As high as Rome, and its great founders reach:
You’ll find, in these hereditary tales,
Your ancestors the scum of broken gaols ;
And Romulus, your honours’ ancient source,
But a poor shepherd’s boy, or something worse.