To recompenfe whose barbarous intent
Pitch'd shirts 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, 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 Theffaly, discolour'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 state,
Withstood the Cimbrians, and redeem'd our fate :
So when the eagles to their quarry flew
(Who never fuch a goodly banquet knew)
Only a fecond 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 eftates, and vulgar was their name;
Yet such their viriues, 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 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 posseft 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 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 reftore
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 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 Thersites 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.
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 jails;
And Romulus, your honour's ancient source,
But a poor shepherd's boy, or fomething worse.
HORACE. BOOK III. ODE VII.
EAR Molly, why so oft in tears?
Why all these jealousies 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 such 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 she, the cunning'st jade alive,
Says, 'tis the ready way to thrive,
By sharing 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 stripp'd;
Who late to peers belonging,
Are nightly now compell'd to trudge
With links, because they would not drudge
To save 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.
But, pretty turtle, when the blade
Shall come with amorous serenade,
Soon from the window rate him:
But if reproof will not prevail,
And he perchance attempt to scale
Difcharge the jordan at him.
VERSES immortal as my bays I fing,
When fuited to my trembling string:
When by strange art both voice and lyre agree
To make one pleasing harmony.
All poets are by their blind captain led,
(For none e'er had the sacrilegious pride
To tear the well-plac'd laurel from his aged head.)
Yet Pindar's rolling dithyrambic tide
Hath still this praise, that none prefume to fly
Like him, but flag too low, or foar too high.
Still does Stefichorus's tongue,
Sing sweeter than the bird which on it hung.
Anacreon n'er too old can grow,
Love from every verse does flow;
Still Sappho's strings do seem to move,
Instructing all her sex to love.
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