Part of the 14th Satyr of Juvenal, Against Covetousness: With a long Preface taken out of the same Satyr

TOO many things (Censorius!) there be
That do entail an endless Infamy,
That brand a man with a deserved shame,
And spoil the lustre of an honest Name,
Which Parents to their Children do transmit,
And ground them in before their Alphabet.
'Tis no such wonder now-a-days to see
How liquorish a little Boy will be,
Still craving change of Dainties to invite
A squeamish Stomach to an Appetite,
Disdaining hearty Fare, and wholsome Meat,
Consulting with Apicius what to eat;
When the old toothless Grandsire with his Gums
Mumps Mushrooms, Marmalade, and Sugar-plums;
Sucks from Herculean Bowls the choicest Wines,
And does whatever Luxury enjoyns:
Go, cries that Lust, he runs: Come, and he'll fly:
What Belly-God his Palate can deny?
No wonder if the Son precisely tread
In the same path where his good Father led.
If he's for this and t'other costly Bit,
Can down with nothing but what's delicate;
And by Tradition keeps to the old Wish,
A Princely Kitchin, and a Dainty Dish.
Thus Nature binds us by too hard a Law;
Domestick patterns easily withdraw;
Led by the Ignis Fatuus of their Vice,
We make no question but they must be wise,
And we fall on, refusing to be nice:
Loth to be made Subjects for Ridicule,
Single exceptions from a Common Rule.
But most when great Authorities enforce,
We hurry on, and follow the same course,
And strive, if possible, to be much worse.
Some few there be more vertuously inclin'd,
Whom Titan made of Clay the best refin'd,
Whom Titan has inspir'd with a more generous mind:
Who scorn by evil Precepts to be sway'd,
And by authentick wickedness betray'd,
Whilst others keep the track their Ancestors have made.
The generality go the common Road,
In which their bigotted Forefathers trod,
Considering not the way's too easie and too broad.
Abstain from Vice, if nothing else can move,
Thô other Reasons insufficient prove,
Let this prevail, a Father's Duty, and a Father's Love.
Lest your Posterity imitating you,
Quote your Authority for what they do;
Your vile Example should infect the Times,
And you must bear your own and others Crimes.
There is a natural Veneration due
Not only from your Son, but for him too.
If an ill thought but comes into your head,
His presence ought to strike that Rebel dead,
And ev'n the Cradle-Infant stifle the misdeed:
Like Hercules that in his Swadling-bands,
Two Serpents crush'd between his Infant-hands.
Contemn not Children that are young and green,
They're old enough to imitate your sin.
Besides with what Authority, what face
Can you reprove a Child for want of Grace?
And never think your self how many grains
Must be allow'd for your own shallow Brains?
'Tis a considerable thing thou'st done,
In getting of a true and lawful Son,
And adding to thy People's number one:
But that's not all; fit him for Peace or War,
The Clergys Pulpit, or the Lawyers Bar,
The Tradesman's Shop, or honest Ploughman's Share.
Capacitate him for some good Vocation,
The Service of his God, his King and Nation:
Else to what purpose is this Propagation?
The Vultures leave their Storehouse in the Fields,
And bring their young ones what that Store-house yields.
These, as they older grow, hunt the same Prey
From their Dams mouths they gobled t'other day.
Breed up your Children well, on that depends
Their future State; their good or their bad ends.
To other Vices Youth it self is prone,
Sordidness, that unnatural sin, alone
Must be inculcated, nor dares appear
Without the Mask of provident and severe.
By these insinuations ground he gains,
Then wins the Field, and as a Tyrant reigns.
Nor is it strange the covetous Gripe should be
Prais'd for the vertue of Frugality,
That all respect to his bald pate be pay'd,
A long experienc'd Artist in his Trade!
Whose Furnace melts down the rich Ore of grounds!
Whose Hammer beats out Pennies into Pounds!
Rare Alchymist! makes Money out of Mould!
Rare Midas! at a touch turns all to Gold!
Now he that do's this pinching Art profess,
Will only Brother Miser's practice bless,
And to his silver God ascribe true happiness.
Him will he teach his Children to adore,
Tell them there is no Hell but to be poor.
That Heaven's Treasure lies in swelling Bags,
The Mark of all Believers holy Rags.
(Vice has her Horn-book and successive Schools,
And steps by method Rudiments and Rules.
The quickest Wits can't all at once be taught;
'Twas by degrees that Mithridates brought
Poyson to be no Poyson, but a cordial Draught.)
Here then he enters Children that are young,
Infants who have not yet well loos'd their lisping tongue.
To little sordid things first works their Brain,
Then to insatiable desires of gain.
No Masters but must Graduates first be,
Vice will not trust a Novice with the Key
That picks the Lock of her Philosophy.
See how the Wretch feeds on a buried Chest,
With Famine starv'd, of golden Dreams possest!
See how he will his Servants of their Wages cheat!
And grutches every fragment that they eat!
Each fragment of dry crust, thô mouldy Bread,
What! Servants pamper'd? upon Sallads fed?
See how he locks up Cabbage, Sprouts, and Leeks!
A parted Onion, counting all the streaks!
See how wild rotten Olives he'll devour!
And quaff off dregs, Vinegar not so sour!
On his own Birth-day, through a small Crow's quill,
Foul stinking Oyl upon his Herbs distil:
In raging Dog-Stars putrefying heat
Bring out a Mess of yesterdays minc'd Meat.
On Beds of Straw free choice of pennance lie,
The Swines Alcove is richer in the Stie.
Frugality! of a Sprat a Dinner makes;
For change of Raiment in the Dung-hill rakes.
Hang sneaking! for a Feast in his best Cloaths,
He to the Beggar-boys a mumping goes.
In Winter runs to Bed before the Sun,
With Turfs and Rush-lights he shall be undone.
But to what purpose dost thou hoard up Pelf,
To ruin Prodigals, and cheat thy self?
Why like the Bee thy time for nothing wast?
Nor of the fruits of all thy labours tast?
Honey for others luxury prepare?
A Beggar to the World, rich only to thy Heir.
Why be a Pimp to prostitute thy store?
Like Damocles hungry, like a Cynick poor.
Thy Soul is in a Dropsie, and her thirst
Will then be satisfy'd when she can burst;
Else pour down millions, still thou art not well,
But thy inordinate desires with Riches swell,
Thy Sieve still gapes, and yet can nothing hold:
Crassus his Cure was a sweet Drench of melted Gold.
He that has least of Wealth, desires it least:
Content is happiness: Enough's a Feast.
When two Farms will not do, a third you'll buy,
And cease to purchase with Eternity.
You cannot see a Neighbours Vineyard yield
A plenteous Vintage, or a fruitful Field
A better crop of Corn, but you must long,
All my own, cries Extortion, right or wrong.
Such things are branded with notorious shame,
Loud sounds the Trumpet of an evil Fame.
Words are but wind, Riches to me are more,
Than to be call'd an honest man, but poor.
Yes,—Wealth includes Prosperity and Ease,
Security from pains, peace, plenty, what you please!
'Tis strange to think how times degenerate!
That which was formerly a good Estate,
Goes for a trifle: Avarice so abounds,
The Prodigal's so profuse, so rich the Miser's grounds.
Avarice, that swoln Python! that Big-bellied Devil!
Who bore, and bred the Hydra of all evil.
That first the use of Steel and Poyson taught,
And bare-fac'd Murther into fashion brought:
For he that is so eager to be rich,
The more he rubs, the more he frets his Itch.
Pygmalion thus, of Homicides not the least,
For Money slew a Brother and a Priest.
Live with your little hills and huts content,
'Tis better in your Bodies to be pent,
Than in your minds. Thus good Fabricius said,
And Curius upon Rapes from Earthen Vessels fed.
These Precepts did those reverend Sages give,
And by their practice taught us how to live.
He that the Yoke of Poverty can bear,
Nor under want sinks deeper in despair:
Need not into the mouth of danger run,
Kill or be kill'd, at once made or undone.
This would the Ancients on their Children press;
In Vertue only lies true happiness.
Now the old covetous Gripe like Stentor bauls,
His Clerk at Midnight to his business calls.
When the poor shivering Youngster scarce can hold
His Pen, for the extremity of cold.
Rise! rise! you Sluggard, rise! Fitzherbert look,
Or carefully peruse the Statute-book.
Copy out this Indenture; make a Deed,
And give me an account of what you read.
Quibbles have neither profit, nor delight,
Sophistry nothing tempting to invite:
Then give your mind to any other thing;
Present a Panegyrick to the King:
Even to thee his bounty may extend,
A Mandate for a Fellowship to lend.
For a Lieutenant's or a Captain's place,
Shew your broad Porter's shoulders to his Grace.
Nine-pin Legs, Hairy Nostrils, brawny Fist,
Be sure your Name'll be enter'd in the List.
But if you tremble when you hear a Gun,
And an Alarum rather makes you run,
Turn Chimny-sweeper, Broker; never care
What Envy may object, but deal in any Ware;
For Gain smells sweet, come it from what it will,
None will say, Gain has an offensive smell.
He hugs his Gold that in the Kennel rakes,
Come it from Common-shore, or Sink, or Jakes.
None question whence a man grows rich, or how;
But money must be had, that we all know.
This every Infant learns of his old Dad,
Without it there's no Farthing to be had.
The little Boys and Girls these Terms of Art,
Before their A b c, must have by heart.
Why all this stir to teach a Child to be
No stranger to his Parents knavery?
Alas! there's no such need for him to kiss the Rod,
'Tis easie following where his Father trod.
He's an apt Scholar, let him but alone,
When's corrupt Native Seeds full ripe are grown;
He cannot miss his Father's fatal Shelf,
Yet he has had no time to shew himself.
When come to age, and in his hot mad blood,
And all the Doctor's practice understood:
He'll swear, forswear, in Villany take delight,
Kill his rich Wife upon his Wedding-night;
And when the witty Rogue has done the feat,
Put a Jest on't, and laugh at the conceit:
I've purify'd my Gold, cries he, from dross,
And separated my Lumber without loss.
Whilst others sweat and labour night and day,
By Sea and Land through unknown places stray,
He has a shorter cut, a more compendious way.
'Twas but the letting a young Widdow blood,
That betwixt him and Miser's Heaven stood:
Now he'll be rich, and in a little time,
A new invention! and a rare design!
The Reason's evident, the case is plain,
Sin comes into the world not without guilt, but pain.
You! no not you! ne're taught your Child to be
A sordid Hoarder, base, or niggarlie:
What then? those covetous Seeds he had from thee.
They're naturally engrafted in his mind,
And he's a Miser not by Rule, but Kind.
A sordid Principle was in his blood,
And as he's yours, he'll never come to good.
He that commends Frugality, and allows
The least suspicious action in his house,
Of Errour his own Judgment he convicts;
And whilst his Reason thus he contradicts,
Youth of that slip an ill improvement make,
That as an universal License take,
To cheat, defraud, and swear out an Estate,
Do any thing to be rich, do any thing to be great.
Give them an Inch, and they will take an Ell,
Blow you the Fire, their greedy Passions swell,
They think they must exceed, or else they can't excel.
You've bred a Viper, that in time will eat
Through your own Bowels, and begin the cheat
Upon your self: so the wild savage Bear
Will his own Master first to pieces tear.
Half his allowance he'll to Saffold give,
To know how long th' Old Man is like to live.
Gapes for your Gold, and curses every Knell,
That he mistakes to be your Passing-bell.
At length impatient for your lingring doom,
He will not let it soft and fairly come:
Saves Hell the trouble, and will Fate forestal,
Be Executioner, and have at all.
From your own flesh and bloud you're forc'd to guard your Throat,
And carry up and down an Antidote.
Hail Democritus! tune up your Lungs for mirth!
Here's the Ludibrium of Heaven and Earth,
That might your laughter for your lives engross,
To see refined Clay thus hoard up dross.
With pains, and care, and danger, grasp up store,
With pains, and care, and danger, keep it more,
But in reversion rich, emphatically poor!
The Miser's Life's a pleasant Comedy!
None so ridiculous a Fool as he!
The Dancer on the Ropes less laughter makes,
H'as better grounds for what he undertakes;
By hazarding his neck he gets his Bread,
And Nature to sustain, ventures his head:
Like Nero, you for Mounts of Golden Ore,
To tumble up and down on silver floor.
See what vast throngs of Vessels plough the Main,
And all to find out unknown Worlds of Gain.
By Hercules his Pillars take their rounds,
Shoot Gulfs, like Remus leap o'er Nature's bounds.
'Tis worth the while to run the risque of Fate,
Stare Death i'th' face, to raise a vast Estate.
He that to this degree of confidence arrives,
Thô Pluto be his Guide, by Pluto thrives;
'Tis not one Fury, nor one Devil drives.
He that one plank from Hell can lie and sleep,
With both the Indies loaden, dance along the deep,
Thô he to save his Purse may well forbear
Revenge upon his Cloaths, and pulling off his Hair:
Yet Bedlam for him groans, Bedlam ne're had
One under her correction half so mad.
A Storm comes hovering, and Phoebus shrouds
His watry Rays under eclipsing Clouds;
Cimmerian darkness falls upon the Air,
Black as th' Abyss, and hopeless as Despair;
Flashes of Lightning's all the light is given,
And Thunder-bolts rowl o're the Plains of Heaven;
Yet cries the Scrape: Trust my Astrologie,
Clear is the lowring Sky, and calm the troubled Sea.
These are but Lambent flames, what men afraid of light?
Of harmless Crackers in a Summers night?
Which a scorcht Air and sultry heat produce?
Come hoise your Sails, and let your Rudders loose,
Let frowning Heaven scare us then no more,
The God will save me whom I still adore.
Blind! vain! unhappy man! perhaps to night
His Soul to Charon goes, and his delight
To Pluto offers him a Sacrifice:
The Conj'rer so by his Familiar dies.
Methinks I see him strugling hard for breath,
Oh, how he gnaws his Purse, and grinds his teeth!
And that must be his life, or that must be his death!
If Fortune favour, he comes safe to shore,
Whom all the World could not suffice before,
Nor Tagus nor Pactolus with their Golden Ore.
Now without House or Home, ready to starve,
Torn Rags to hide his nakedness will serve,
Fragments of mouldy Bread, and scraps of Meat,
Which Beggars proffer'd, would refuse to eat,
Go down so chearfully, and oh! a Crust's so sweet!
Oh! the delicious Fare of Bread and Cheese!
Oh! how the Miser begs upon his knees!
To get a Farthing do's his miseries relate,
And prove his Shipwrack by Certificate:
And this is to be rich! and this is to be great!
Wealth with such trouble and such care procur'd,
Wealth so impossible to be secur'd
From Fire and Thieves, turns but to little Gains;
Nothing can recompence eternal pains.
C—n that rich poor man, can take no rest,
With slavish Fears like Mill-stones on his breast;
Must have three sturdy Fellows always on their guard,
And for their use Engines and Arms prepar'd.
Yet jealous Whims his Eyes still waking keep,
Poor C—n cannot take a wink of sleep.
There's no rude hand would touch the Cynick's Den,
If burnt or broken by malicious men;
He would another Tub to morrow make,
Or out of this a stately Lodging take.
This Alexander knew, and curs'd his Fate,
That cast his Lot so much below the State
Of wise Diogenes, Diogenes the Great!
Small was the Shell, great the Inhabitant!
Who nothing had, and yet did nothing want!
Happier than he that fain would befor ever known,
Monarch, and God, and make the World his own:
Whose Glories would to Dangers soon betray,
Whose Dangers would his Glories far outweigh.
He that to Wisdom's Light conforms his Soul,
Can never lose his way, nor miss the Goal.
No Deity is wanting to the Wise,
For Prudence is the best of Deities.
Which he that single harbours in his breast,
In her alone comprehends all the rest.
Fortune! thy Godhead so implor'd below,
Only to Fools and Mad-men thou dost owe.
Thou dost no God-like Attributes partake,
A Demy-Goddess of a Humane make!
If any one will accept of my Advice,
To know just what Ingredients may suffice
To make up a good honest Livelihood,
Too little by Pretenders understood:
First ℞ q. s. of Meat,
To keep out Cold and Hunger, freely eat
Of temp'rate Socrates his wholsom Dish,
And take an ounce or two of Cowly's Wish.
Retire sometime from Company by stealth,
For Meditation sake, and for your health,
To Epicurus Garden, and there see
Nature in every Variety.
There every day some time for study should be spent,
Eat freely of the only Fruit, Content.
Nature and Wisdom always say the same,
Nature and Wisdom here do differ but in name.
Still thirsts your Soul as if your Heart would break,
Another Julep then more usual make,
Two thousand pound for a Pearl-Cordial take.
Still can you make a Face? contract a Frown?
As if you could not get your Pect'ral Potion down?
Once more your former Cordial then repeat,
And add four thousand pound to make it sweet.
Still take you up a prejudice against this Receipt?
Then all the Wealth that both the Indies boast,
To this, were thrown away, and meerly lost:
Would never satisfie your damn'd excess,
Nor in the least contribute to true Happiness.