Satire III

What! ever thus? See! while the beams of dayIn broad effulgence o'er the shutters play,Stream through the crevice, widen on the walls,On the fifth line the gnomon's shadow falls!Yet still you sleep, like one that, stretched supine,Snores off the fumes of strong Falernian wine.Up! up! mad Sirius parches every blade,And flocks and herds lie panting in the shade.Here my youth rouses, rubs his heavy eyes,"Is it so late? so very late?" he cries;"Shame, shame! Who waits? Who waits there? quick, my page!Why, when!" His bile overflows; he foams with rage,And brays so loudly, that you start in fear,And fancy all Arcadia at your ear.Behold him, with his bedgown and his books,His pens and paper, and his studious looks,Intent and earnest! What arrests his speed,Alas! the viscous liquid clogs the reed.Dilute it. Pish! now every word I writeSinks through the paper, and eludes the sight;Now the pen leaves no mark, the point's too fine;Now 'tis too blunt, and doubles every line!O wretch! whom every day more wretched sees--Are these the fruits of all your studies? these!Give o'er at once: and like same callow dove,Some prince's heir, some lady's infant love,Call for chewed pap; and, pouting at the breast,Scream at the lullaby that woos to rest!"But why such warmth? See what a pen! nay, see!"--And is this subterfuge employed on me?Fond boy! your time, with your pretext, is lost;And all your arts are at your proper cost.While with occasion thus you madly play,Your best of life unheeded leaks away,And scorn flows in apace: the ill-baked ware,Rung by the potter, will its fault declare;Thus--But you yet are moist and yielding clay:Call for some plastic hand without delay,Nor cease the labor, till the wheel produceA vessel nicely formed, and fit for use."But wherefore this? My father, thanks to fate,Left me a fair, if not a large, estate:--A salt unsullied on my table shines,And due oblations, in their little shrines,My household gods receive; my hearth is pure,And all my means of life confirmed and sure:What need I more?" Nay, nothing; it is well.--And it becomes you, too, with pride to swell,Because, the thousandth in descent, you traceYour blood, unmixed, from some high Tuscan race;Or, when the knights march by the censor's chair,In annual pomp, can greet a kinsman there!Away! these trappings to the rabble show:Me they deceive not; for your soul I know,Within, without.--And blush you not to seeLoose Natta's life and yours so well agree?--But Natta's is not life: the sleep of sinHas seized his powers, and palsied all within;Huge cawls of fat envelope every part,And torpor weighs on his insensate heart:Absolved from blame by ignorance so gross,He neither sees nor comprehends his loss;Content in guilt's profound abyss to drop,Nor, struggling, send one bubble to the top!Dread sire of gods! when lust's envenomed stingsStir the fierce natures of tyrannic kings;When storms of rage within their bosoms roll,And call, in thunder, for thy just control,O, then relax the bolt, suspend the blow,And thus, and thus alone, thy vengeance show,In all her charms, set Virtue in their eye,And let them see their loss, despair, and--die!Say, could the wretch severer tortures feel,Closed in the brazen bull?--Could the bright steel,That, while the board with regal pomp was spread,Gleamed o'er the guest, suspended by a thread,Worse pangs inflict than he endures, who cries(As on the rack of conscious guilt he lies,In mental agony), "Alas! I fall,Down, down the unfathomed steep, without recall!"And withers at the heart, and dares not showHis bosom wife the secret of his woe!Oft (I remember yet), my sight to spoil.Oft, when a boy, I bleared my eyes with oil,What time I wished my studies to decline,Nor make great Cato's dying speeches mine;Speeches my master to the skies had raised,Poor pedagogue! unknowing what he praised;And which my sire, suspense 'twixt hope and fear,With venial pride, had brought his friends to hear.For then, alas! 'twas my supreme delightTo study chances, and compute aright,What sum the lucky sice would yield in play,And what the fatal aces sweep away:Anxious no rival candidate for fameShould hit the long-necked jar with nicer aim;Nor, while the whirling top beguiled the eye,With happier skill the sounding scourge apply.But you have passed the schools; have studied long,And learned the eternal bounds of Right and Wrong,And what the Porch (by Mycon limned, of yore,With trowsered Medes), unfolds of ethic lore,Where the shorn youth, on herbs and pottage fed,Bend, o'er the midnight page, the sleepless head:And, sure, the letter where, divergent wide,The Samian branches shoot on either side,Has to your view, with no obscure display,Marked, on the right, the strait but better way.And yet you slumber still! and still opprestWith last night's revels, knock your head and breast!And stretching o'er your drowsy couch, produceYawn after yawn, as if your jaws were loose!Is there no certain mark at which to aim?--Still must your bow be bent at casual game?With clods, and potsherds, must you still pursueEach wandering crow that chance presents to view;And, careless of your life's contracted span,Live from the moment, and without a plan?When bloated dropsies every limb invade.In vain to hellebore you fly for aid:Meet with preventive skill the young disease,And Craterus will boast no golden fees.Mount, hapless youths, on Contemplation's wings,And mark the Causes and the End of things:--Learn what we are, and for what purpose born,What station here 'tis given us to adorn;How best to blend security with ease,And win our way through life's tempestuous seas;What bounds the love of property requires,And what to wish, with unreproved desires;How far the genuine use of wealth extends;And the just claims of country, kindred, friendsWhat Heaven would have us be, and where our stand,In this GREAT WHOLE, is fixed by high command.Learn these--and envy not the sordid gainsWhich recompense the well-tongued lawyer's pains;Though Umbrian rustics, for his sage advice,Pour in their jars of fish, and oil, and spice,So thick and fast, that, ere the first be o'er,A second, and a third, are at the door."But here, some brother of the blade, some coarseAnd shag-haired captain, bellows loud and hoarse;Away with this cramp, philosophic stuff!My learning serves my turn, and that's enough.I laugh at all your dismal Solons, I;Who stalk with downcast looks, and heads awry,Muttering within themselves, where'er they roam,And churning their mad silence till it foam!Who mope o'er sick men's dreams, howe'er absurd,And on protruded lips poise every word;Nothing can come from nothing. Apt and plain!Nothing return to nothing. Good, again!And this it is for which they peak and pine,This precious stuff, for which they never dine!"Jove, how he laughs! the brawny youths aroundCatch the contagion, and return the sound;Convulsive mirth on every cheek appears,And every nose is wrinkled into sneers!"Doctor, a patient said, employ your art,I feel a strange wild fluttering at the heart;My breast seems tightened, and a fetid smellsets my breath--feel here; all is not well,"Medicine and rest the fever's rage compose,And the third day his blood more calmly flows.The fourth, unable to contain, he sendsA hasty message to his wealthier friends,And just about to bathe--requests, in fine,A moderate flask of old Surrentin wine."Good heavens! my friend, what sallow looks are here?"Pshaw! nonsense! nothing! "Yet 'tis worth your fear,Whate'er it be: the waters rise within,And, though unfelt, distend your sickly skin."--And yours still more! Whence springs this freedom, tro'?Are you, forsooth, my guardian? Long agoI buried him; and thought my nonage o'er:But you remain to school me! "Sir, no more."--Now to the bath, full gorged with luscious fare,See the pale wretch his bloated carcass bear;While from his lungs, that faintly play by fits,His gasping throat sulphureous steam emits!--Cold shiverings seize him, as for wine he calls,His grasp betrays him, and the goblet falls!From his loose teeth the lip, convulsed, withdraws,And the rich cates drop through his listless jaws.Then trumpets, torches come, in solemn state;And my fine youth, so confident of late,Stretched on a splendid bier, and essenced o'er,Lies, a stiff corpse, heels foremost at the door.Romans of yesterday, with covered head,Shoulder him to the pyre, and--all is said!--"But why to me? Examine every part;My pulse:--and lay your finger on my heart;You'll find no fever: touch my hands and feet,A natural warmth, and nothing more, you'll meet."'Tis well! But if you light on gold by chance,If a fair neighbor cast a sidelong glance,Still will that pulse with equal calmness flow,And still that heart no fiercer throbbings know?Try yet again. In a brown dish behold,Coarse gritty bread, and coleworts stale and old:Now, prove your taste. Why those averted eyes?Hah! I perceive:--a secret ulcer liesWithin that pampered mouth, too sore to bearThe untender grating of plebeian fare!Where dwells this natural warmth, when danger's near,And "each particular hair" starts up with fear?Or where resides it, when vindictive ireInflames the bosom; when the veins run fire,The reddening eye-balls glare; and all you say,And all you do, a mind so warped betray,That mad Orestes, if the freaks he saw,Would give you up at once to chains and straw!