Never on verfe 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, fet Rome on fire. Such crimes make treafon juft, and might compel Virginius, Vindex, Galba, to rebel ;
For what could Nero's felf have acted worfe To aggravate the wretched nation's curfe?
These are the bleft endowments, studies, arts, Which exercise our mighty Emperor's parts; Such frolicks with his roving genius fuit, On foreign theatres 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 fome place Among the other trophies of thy race; By the Domitii's ftatues fhall be laid
The habit and the mask in which you play'd Antigone's, or bold Thyeftes' part,
wild nature little wanted art) And on the marble pillar fhall be hung The lute to which the Royal Madman fung. Who, Catiline, can boaft a nobler line Than thy lewd friend Cethegus's, and thine? Yet you took arms, and did by night confpire To fet your houfes and our gods on fire (An enterprize which might indeed becoine Our enemies, the Gauls, not fons of Rome,
To recompenfe whofe barbarous intent
Pitch'd fhirts would be too mild a punishment) : But Tully, our wife conful, watch'd the blow, With care discover'd, and disarm'd the foe; Tully, the humble mushroom, fcarcely 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 fhare 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 Theffaly, difcolour'd by the flain: Him therefore Rome in gratitude decreed The Father of his Country, which he freed. Marius (another conful we admire)
In the fame village born, first plow'd for hire ; His next advance was to the foldier's trade, Where, if he did not nimbly ply the spade, His furly officer ne'er fail'd to crack His knotty cudgel on his tougher back : Yet he alone fecur'd the tottering ftate,
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 fecond laurel did adorn
His colleague Catulus, though nobly born; He fhar'd the pride of the triumphal bay, But Marius won the glory of the day.
From a mean ftock the pious Decii came, Small their eftates, and vulgar was their name; Yet fuch their viriues, that their lofs 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 fav'd. The last good king whom willing Rome obey'd, Was the poor offspring of a captive maid; Yet he those robes of empire justly bore, Which Romulus, our facred founder, wore: Nicely he gain'd, and well poffeft the throne, Not for his father's merit, but his own, And reign'd, himfelf a family alone.
When Tarquin, his proud fucceffor, was quell'd, And with him Luft and Tyranny expell'd, The confuls fons (who, for their country's good, And to inhance the honour of their blood, Should have afferted 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: Whilft a poor flave, with fcarce a name, betray'd The horrid ills thefe well-born rogues had laid; Who therefore for their treafon justly bore The rods and ax, 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 Therfites got thee, thou shalt be More lov'd by all, and more esteem'd by me, Than if by chance you from fome hero came, In nothing like your father but his name.
Boaft then your blood, and your long lineage ftretch As high as Rome, and its great founders reach; You'll find, in these hereditary tales,
Your ancestors the fcum of broken jails;
And Romulus, your honour's ancient fource, But a poor fhepherd's boy, or something worse.
HORACE. BOOK III. ODE VII.
DEAR Molly, why fo oft in tears?
Why all these jealoufies and fears.
For thy bold Son of Thunder?
Have patience till we've conquer'd France, Thy closet shall be stor❜d with Nantz; Ye ladies like fuch plunder.
Before Toulon thy yoke-mate lies, Where all the live-long night he fighs For thee in loufy cabin :
And though the Captain's Chloe cries, ""Tis I, dear Bully, pr'ythee rife”- He will not let the drab in.
But fhe, the cunning'ft jade alive,
Says, 'tis the ready way to thrive,
By fharing female bounties: And, if he'll be but kind one night, She vows he shall be dubb'd a knight, When she is made a countess.
Then tells of smooth young pages whipp'd, Cashier'd, and of their liveries ftripp'd ; Who late to peers belonging,
Are nightly now compell'd to trudge With links, because they would not drudge To fave their ladies longing.
But Val the eunuch cannot be
A colder cavalier than he,
In all fuch love-adventures : Then pray do you, dear Molly, take Some Chriftian care, and do not break Your conjugal indentures.
Bellair! (who does not Bellair know? The wit, the beauty, and the beau) Gives out, he loves you dearly :
And many a nymph attack'd with fighs, And foft impertinence and noise,
Full oft has beat a parley.
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