Satires 2.1 (Creech): Sunt Quibus In Satira

SOme Fancy I am bitter when I jeer
Beyond the Rules of Satyr too severe;
Some that my Verse is dull and flat, and say,
A Man may write a Thousand such a day.
What shall I do Trebatius? Why give o're,
Thy scribling humor check, and write no more:
The Counsel's good, and oh that I could choose,
But I can't sleep for my unruly Muse:
Why then (for that will lay a rambling Head)
Go always tir'd, or else go drunk to Bed.
Of if you needs must write, go raise thy Fame,
By Caesar's Wars, for that's a noble Theme,
And that will get Thee Wealth and an Esteem.
I have the Will, but when I strive to fly,
My Wing's too weak, nor can I rise so high.
For 'tis not every one can paint a War,
How Iron Armies dreadful gay appear;
The Galli falling by a braver force,
Or wounded Parthians tumbling from their Horse.
Yet Thou, for such the wise Lucilius show'd
Great Scipio, may'st describe him just and good:
Well, when Occasion serves my Muse designs
To try that way, but my unpolish't lines,
Unless by chance a happy Time appears,
Will never pass the judging Caesar's Ears,
Whom if you try to stroak, He's free from Pride,
And kicks you off, secure on every side:
And this is better than with railing Rhymes,
To lash the faults and follies of the Times,
Since all think they are hit, and all resent,
And hate Thee, tho perhaps They are not meant.

What shall I do?
As most Men have their humours I have mine,
Milonius Dances when He's full of Wine:
Pollux on Foot, on Horse-back Castor fights;
As many Men, so many their delights:
I love to Rhyme, and have a railing Wit,
And choose the way that wise Lucilius writ:
He did to's Book, as to a Trusty Friend,
His secret Vertues, and his Faults Commend.
And when a good or faulty deed was done,
He trusted them with that, and them alone.
And hence his Books do all his Life explain,
As if we saw him live it o're again.
This Man I imitate; but what I am
Faith I can't tell, nor know from whence I came;
For whether I my Birth t' Appulia owe,
Or to Lucania, faith 'tis hard to know,
Since we Venusians live between these two;
Plac't here, as Tales of Ancient Fame relate,
When the Sabelli bow'd to stronger Fate,
On this side to secure the Roman State:
Lest fierce Appulian or Lucanian Arms,
Should take them unprovided for Alarms.

But yet this Pen of mine shall never wound
If unprovok't, yet still I'le keep my ground,
Ready for all assaults, make this my guard,
And stand on my defence, be still prepar'd,
As with a Sword, yet sheath'd, and never draw
Unless assaulted, to keep Rogues in Awe.
Grant bounteous Heaven, Oh grant me welcome Peace,
Oh grant this Sword of mine might rust in ease!
Let none hurt Peaceful Me with envious Tongue,
For if he does, He shall repent the wrong:
The warning's fair, his Vices shall be shown,
And Life expos'd to all the Cens'ring Town;
Affronted Cervius threatens Suits of Law,
Canidia Charms to keep her Foes in Awe.
And Praetor Turius when he bears a grudge,
If Thou shalt plead a Cause when He is Judge:
Each fights with that with which he can prevail,
And powerful Nature thus instructs us all.
The Wolves with Teeth; with Horns the Bulls begin:
And whence, but from a secret Guide within?
Let Scoeva have (for this he counts a wrong)
A Mother, that He thinks will live too long;
His pious Hand shall never wound her Heart,
No wonder this, 'tis not his proper Art.
A Wolf ne're kicks, with Teeth a Bull ne're kills,
But she shall take a Dose of poison'd Pills.
In short then, whether I live long or no,
Or Rich, or Poor, howe're my Fortunes go,
Live here at Rome, or banish't take my flight,
Whatever is my state of Life, I'le write:
Well, Sir, I see your Life then can'nt be long,
Some great Ones, faith, will stop your railing Tongue.

How, Sir, Lucilius that did first ingage
In writing Satyrs, and that lash't the Age,
And strip't our Foplings of their Lyons skin,
In which they look't so gay, all foul within.
Did Loelius, or did Scipio hate his Muse?
Or storm, when He Metellus did abuse?
The Great-ones, and the Crowd did discommend,
And valued Vertue only, and her Friend?
No, no, They treated him, and thought him good,
And when remov'd from business, and the Crow'd,
Would keep him Company, would laugh and jest,
And sport until their little Meat was drest.
What e're I am, altho I must submit
To wise Lucilius, in Estate and Wit,
Yet I with Great-ones live, this all confess,
And envy, tho unwilling grants no less.
And tho she thinks me soft, will find me tough,
And break her Teeth, for I have strength enough;
I hope, Trebatius, this you grant is true,
Yes, Sir, but 'tis my pious Care for You,
My Love that makes me give you this advice,
Take heed of Scandal, Horace, and be wise.
Well, Sir, if any scand'lously derides,
Then let him suffer as the Law provides,
If justly mighty Caesar is his Friend,
He loves such Poems, and he will defend;
And thus if You a Man of spotless Fame,
Shall lash another, that deserves the shame:
And He grows mad, Indicts or Sues Thee for't,
The foolish Action shall be turn'd to sport;
He laugh't, and jeer'd at, You discharg'd the Court.