Juvenals Eighth Satyre (fragment)

HOW vain a thing's discent! How poor the Fame
Of a deriv'd hereditary Name!
Or Rooms of State by proud Patricians hung,
With mighty Conqu'rors from whose Loins they sprung?
Where with the Pageantry of painted Pride,
Th' Aemilians in triumphant Chariots ride.
That such prodigious Coxcombs should be found,
As to be proud of Shadow and of Sound!
Deform'd, half, Headless Heroes to expose
In Statues rotten, and consum'd as those:
For what Advantage can at last be thine,
Tho' the wide Arms of thy extended Line
Renown'd old Roman Magistrates embrace,
If thy vile Life brands thy whole glorious Race?
If in thy brave Forefathers awful ight,
Their Off-spring drinks all Day, and plays all Night
Then at the Dawn lies down, at which they Arm'd,
To the dire Field by Glories Trump alarm'd.
Can Fabius value himself with any Face
On Gallic Trophies, and th' Herculean Race,
Fabius Rome's Scandal, and his Line's Disgrace.
The vainest, lewdest Fop about the Town,
Heavy and soft as Slumbers on the Down,
Who by the Pumice-stone's preposterous Use,
His pathick Loins adapting for Abuse,
Doe's all his rusty Ancestors traduce.
Till at the last his poys'ning Practice known,
Defiles their Statues and destroys his own,
By the just Laws for his high Crimes o'rethrown.
Tho' your entail'd swol'n Titles Volumes fill,
If you want Virtue you're but Rabble still.
Paulus and Cossus Names set high by Fate,
May bring some noisie Pomp, some empty State,
But their rare Virtues make you truly Great.
Consul, or private Man, let those be shown,
Let those before your very Rods be known.
If Noble to be thought by me y' aspire,
Know 'tis a Noble Mind that I require.
If you're in Life unblam'd, in Practice just,
True to your Friend, and faithful to your Trust,
To your high Birth immediately I vail,
Silan us or Getulicus all Hail!
Or from whatever Stem thou com'st beside,
It's Glory and thy exulting Countries Pride,
With Rapture, I have sound thee, strait I cry,
Like the Egyptians when their God they spy.
Who calls him Great, whose Life his Race belyes,
And want of worth adulterate Blood descryes;
Who calls him Noble does it by Abuse,
For wicked Ironies are much in use.
This let Rubellius Plancus ponder well,
Whom the brave Drusi's lofty Line do's swell.
As if such Virtues did in Plancus shine,
That (could he yet be got) those Pow'rs Divine,
Might claim to be incorporate in Rome's imperial Line:
As if such Things could not in haste be made
By some lewd Rogue, and some Suburbian Jade:
Had but his sporting Mother known that Thing
Would from the pleasure which she toyl'd for spring,
That very thought had damp'd her active Flame,
And of approaching Bliss had bilk'd the panting Dame.
Yet with disdain this haughty blockhead eyes
Those of a lower Rank, and thus he cryes:
" Base Scoundrels, you of Rome the Lees and Scum,
" To whom your Fathers Countries are unknown,
" As were your wretched Fathers to their own,
" Whilst from Crown'd Heads and Demy-gods I come.
Long may your Honour live, and, whilst you live,
With joy t' your self your topping Titles give.
Yet know amongst these Scoundrels some have Sense
Adorn'd with Wit and Manly Eloquence.
And if you with litigious Foes contend,
Amongst this Scum a Lord may want a Friend,
Who can your Sots of Quality defend.
Ev'n from the Lees of Rome brave Spirits rise,
Who, searching Glory, Death and Wounds despise;
Some to the Rhine, and tam'd Bavarians run,
Some to Euphrates, and the rising Sun:
Whilst thou contented with a borrow'd Fame,
Stick'st to thy Father's Statues, like the same,
A cold dull Mass, and a high sounding Name:
True; Freakish Action Life in Plancus proves,
Yet their rare shapes, tho' fix'd as stone behoves,
Express more Soul than thine, whose sensless Figure moves.