One books and skreens, and Pallas to the breast;
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, could you be content to bid adieu
To the dear playhouse, and the players too,
Sweet country-seats are purchased every where,
With lands and gardens, at less price than here
You hire a darksome dog-hole by the year.
A small convenience decently prepared,
A shallow well, that rises in your yard,
That spreads his easy 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 die,
Which fumes of undigested feasts deny,
And, with imperfect heat, in languid stomachs fry.
What house secure from noise the poor can keep,
When even 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 even drowsy Drusus from his dreams.
And yet the wealthy will not brook delay,
But sweep above our heads, and make their way,
In lofty litters borne, and read and write,
Or sleep at ease, the shutters make it night;

Herbs, roots, fruits, and sallads,

Yet still he reaches first the public place.
The press 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 jostles in the shole,
A rafter breaks his head, or chairman's pole;
Stocking'd with loads of fat town-dirt he goes,
And some rogue-soldier, with his hob-nailed shoes,
Indents his legs behind in bloody rows.

See, with what smoke our doles we celebrate : A hundred guests, invited, walk in state;

A hundred hungry slaves, with their Dutch kit-
chens, wait.

Huge pans the wretches on their heads must bear,
Which scarce gigantic Corbulo* could 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.
Unweildy timber-trees, in waggons borne,
Stretched at their length, beyond their carriage lie,
That nod, and threaten ruin from on high;
For, should their axle break, its overthrow
Would crush, and pound to dust, the crowd below;
Nor friends their friends, nor sires their sons could

know;

Nor limbs, nor bones, nor carcase, would remain,
But a mashed heap, a hotchpotch of the slain;
One vast destruction; not the soul alone,
But bodies, like the soul, invisible are flown.

* Corbulo was a famous general, in Nero's time, who conquered Armenia, and was afterwards put to death by that tyrant, when he was in Greece, in reward of his great services. His stature was not only tall above the ordinary size, but he was also proportionably strong.

Meantime, unknowing of their fellow's fate,
The servants wash the platter, scower the plate,
Then blow the fire, with puffing cheeks, and lay
The rubbers, and the bathing-sheets display,
And oil them first; and each is handy in his way.
But he, for whom this busy care they take,
Poor ghost! is wandering by the Stygian lake;
Affrighted with the ferryman's grim face,
New to the horrors of that uncouth place,
His passage begs, with unregarded prayer,
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 sense 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 stern Achilles, when his friend was slain;
'Tis so ridiculous, but so true withal,

A bully cannot sleep without a brawl.

Yet, though his youthful blood be fired 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 flambeaux, and embroidered coat,
May privilege 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 stuft 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-goat's 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, retired, you think
To sleep securely, when the candles wink,
When every door with iron chains is barred,
And roaring taverns are no longer heard;
The ruffian robbers, by no justice awed,
And unpaid cut-throat soldiers, are abroad;
Those venal souls, who, hardened in each ill,
To save complaints and prosecution, kill.
Chased from their woods and bogs, the padders

come

To this vast city, as their native home,
To live at ease, and safely skulk in Rome.
The forge in fetters only is employed;
Our iron mines exhausted and destroyed

In shackles; for these villains scarce allow
Goads for the teams, and plough-shares for the plough.
Oh, happy ages of our ancestors,

Beneath the kings and tribunitial powers!

One jail did all their criminals restrain,

Which now the walls of Rome can scarce contain.

More I could say, more causes I could show

For my departure, but the sun is low;
The waggoner grows weary of my stay,
And whips his horses forwards on their way.
Farewell! and when, like me, o'erwhelmed with

care,

You to your own Aquinam* shall repair,
To take a mouthful of sweet country air,
Be mindful of your friend; and send me word,
What joys your fountains and cool shades afford.
Then, to assist your satires, I will come,

And add new venom when you write of Rome.

* The birth-place of Juvenal,