Satires 1.3 (Creech): Omnibus Hoc Vitium

AMongst their Friends our Songsters all agree
Of this one fault, not one of them is free;
Ask them to Sing you cannot have a Note,
No, they have gotten Cold, or a soare Throat:
But unrequested then They strain their Voice,
And trouble all the Company with their Noise:
This humour hath Tigellius often shown;
If by his Father's Friendship and his own
Caesar, that could Command, did beg a Song;
'Twas all in vain, He might have held his Tongue:
Yet take him in the vein, and He would sing
From Morn till Night, a Health to Charles our King:
Sometimes to squeaking Treble his voice would raise,
Then sink again into the deepest Base:
A most unsettled fellow, He would run
As if He fled a Robber, or a Dun;
And streight as in Procession gravely go,
Now with two hundred Servants, now but Two:
Sometimes He'd talk of Heroes, and of Kings,
In mighty swelling Numbers mighty Things:
And then again, let gracious Fortune give
A little Meat and Drink enough to live:
Let her a Coat to keep out Cold present,
Altho 'tis thick and course, yet I'm content:
Yet give this sparing thing, this moderate,
This Man of mean desires a vast Estate,
In Nine days time 'tis every Penny gone,
And He's grown Poor again, and is undone:
He wakes all Night to Sing, to Drink, and Play,
Then goes to Bed, and snores it all the Day:
No Mans designs like his do disagree,
None lives so contrary to himself as He.

Ay, but says One, have you no fault like this?
Yes, Sir, I have, Perhaps as great as his:
When Menius rail'd at Novius, how, says One,
Do'st know thy self, or think thy faults unknown?
Ay, but says Menius, I forgive my Own:
This is a foolish, and a wicked Love,
And such as sharpest Satyrs should reprove,
When thou art Blind and Senseless to thine own,
How do'st thou see thy Friend's Disease so soon:
That scarce a Serpent can so quickly spy,
Nor any Eagle hath so good an Eye.
Well then go on, pursue thy mean design,
As Thou do'st find their faults, so They will thine;
Perhaps He's pettish, and He's apt to rage,
He cannot bear the Railery of the Age,
Perhaps he doth not wear his Cloaths gentile,
His Shoe is not well made, nor sits it well:
He may be flouted, and be jeer'd for this;
Yet He's an honest Man as any is:
He is thy Friend, and tho the Case be foul,
It holds a Learned, and a Noble Soul.
Lastly, look o're thy self with strictest Care,
And see what seeds of Vice are rooted there,
What Nature plants, and what ill Customs bear.
This search is good, for a neglected Field,
Or Thorns, or useless Fern will quickly yield.

Well, let us bring our selves at last to this,
As ardent Lovers when they Court a Miss;
Or spy no faults, or love those faults they spy,
Thus Agne's Polypus pleas'd Balbine's Eye;
I wish this Error in our Friendship reign'd,
Or had the credit of a Vertue gain'd,
As Fathers hide Sons faults or else commend,
We should excuse the failures of our Friend:
A Father that hath got a Squint-ey'd Boy
Crys what a pretty Cast adorns my joy!
And calls his dwarfish Son that's often sick,
As that Abortive Sisyphus, his Chick:
Is one too Close? be tender of his fame,
And call him thrifty, 'tis the softer Name:
If He will brag too much, if He is vain,
Then say he is a brisk, and merry Man:
If He will rage, if he will rudely flout,
Then say He is a downright Friend, and stout:
If He will huff, his Airy Soul commend,
And this I think will get, and keep a Friend:
But We unkindly and perversely nice,
Do turn their very Vertues into Vice:
If any lives a sober honest life,
Puts up Affronts, and shuns disturbing Strise,
A mean, we streight exclaim, and Chicken Soul:
And one that's slow, We call a thick-scull'd Fool:
Another in these evidencing Times
When Envy loads our Honest Men with Crimes,
Lives unsuspected, and with prudent Art
He keeps himself secure on every part.
Instead of Wise, of Provident, and Grave,
Oh He's a Cunning and a Crafty Knave:
If any man (as I have often done
To you Mecaenas, and now freely own)
Impertinent Discourse or Questions brings,
Or jogs Another whil'st He reads or sings,
Or sits a musing upon other things:
We streight grow Mad, we'l hear no just defence;
Pox, He's a Dolt, He wants even Common Sense;
What Customs, ah! what Rules have Men design'd?
And how unjust, and to themselves unkind!
There's none but hath some fault, and he's the best,
Most Vertuous he, that's spotted with the least:
A kind good natur'd Friend that strives to prove
And know the Man that he intends to love,
And weighs my Vertues, and my Faults, 'tis just
(If happily my Vertues prove the most,)
To let that Scale go down; and if on this
He'l be a Friend, I'le bate some things amiss,
And make the same allowance in weighing his:
For those that would not have their Sores offend,
Must not disgust the Pimples of their Friend:
And 'tis but just, that he that hopes to find
A Pardon for his Faults, should be as kind,
And give the like, and with a willing mind.

But now since Passion's rooted in our Souls,
As other faults that stick so close to Fools;
Why doth not Reason poise and mend our thoughts?
And see our rage proportion'd to the faults:
When Supper's done a Slave removes the Dish,
And spills the Broth, or else lets fall the Fish;
Now should the Master stab the Slave for this,
He would be thought more mad then Labeo is:
But how more mad are we, and more severe!
Our Friends but little, and but seldom Erre,
(And such small Faults good Natures ne're resent;
They sin as Men must do, and may repent.)
But yet for this we hate, for this we shun,
As Bankrupts, Risio, the notorious Dun;
Who, when the Calends come, severely sues,
And if the Debtor doth not pay the Use,
He's clapt in Jayl, and hears a tedious Bill,
A killing Scroll, Item, and Item still:
My Friend got drunk, perhaps hath foul'd my bed,
Or bruis'd a Cup by neat Evander made,
Or snacht away a Chicken from my Plate,
And must I love my Friend the less for that?
What should I do then if he prov'd unjust,
Refus'd to bayl me, Thiev'd or broke his Trust?
Those that hold Vices equal seem distress't,
When leaving Sophistry they come toth' Test:
This Fancy doth with Law and Custom fight,
And Interest too, that spring of Just and Right:
When Man first crept from Mother Earth's cold Womb,
He was a miserable Thing, and dumb;
Then they for Acorns fought, and shady Cave,
With Nails, then Clubs, the Weapons Nature gave:
And next with Swords which sad convenience found,
And malice taught them they were fit to wound:
Till Words and Names for Things, and Laws began,
And civiliz'd the bruitish Creature Man:
Then they built Towns, and settled Right and Just,
And Laws to curb our Rapine, and our Lust;
For long e're Helen's time a thousand dy'd,
Then thousands fought to get a beauteous Bride:
But unrecorded fell, like Beasts they stray'd,
Each caught his willing Female and enjoy'd:
Till one more strong kill'd him, and was preferr'd,
Just as the greatest Bull amongst the Herd:
Look o're the Word's old Records, there's the Cause.
'Twas fear of wrong that made us make our Laws:
By Naked Nature ne're was understood
What's Just and Right, as what is Bad and Good,
What fit and what unfit for Flesh and Bood:
Nor Reason shews to break a Garden Hedge,
Should be as great a Crime as Sacriledge:
Let Rules be fixt that may our Rage contain,
And punish faults with a Proportion'd pain:
And do not flea him, do not run him through,
That only doth deserve a kick or two:
For I ne're fear that Thou wilt prove too kind,
To too much Pity vitiously inclin'd,
That can'st hold Vices Equal, and believe
To Rob's no greater Crime than 'tis to Thieve;
And who would punish all with equal hand
If Thou wer't King, and had'st the full Command:
If he that's wise and skilful in his Trade,
Tho but a Cobler, must be neatly made,
Be rich, be fair, be handsome and a King;
Why do'st Thou wish for't since Thou hast the Thing?
But what Chrysippus said Thou dost not know,
No wise Man yet did ever make a shoe
And yet the Cobler's a wise Man; how so?
Why, as Hermogenes, tho He holds his Tongue,
Is skill'd in Musick and can set a Song;
And suffling Alfen though he lost his Awl,
And threw away his Last, and shut his Stall;
And broak his Threads, yet was a Cobler still;
Thus every Tradesman if he hath but skill
Is wise, and therefore only King: but stay,
Unless you use your Club, with wanton play
The waggish Boys will pluck thy formal Beard,
Thou shalt be kickt, derided, scorn'd and jeer'd,
Till thou do'st burst when Rage or Envy Stings,
And snarl thou greatest King of mighty Kings.
In short, whilst Thou a King shalt walk in State,
And only foolish Crispin on Thee wait,
To get a farthing Bath, I nobly live,
The Faults I Fool commit, my friends forgive,
And I as easily will pardon theirs,
And so I'le live secure, and free from Cares,
A happier Private Man, Than Thou a King.