Satires 2.5 (Creech): Hoc Quoque, Tiresia

TIresias now indulge one favor more,
And teach beside what thou hast taught before,
How to regain my Wealth, now I'me poor:
Why do You smile? Let me not beg in vain,
Is't not enough that you have scap't the Main,
And safely come to Ithaca again?
Unerring Prophet, see as you fore-told,
I am come home again, Grey, Wrinkled, Old,
And Poor: my Wives Gallants have seiz'd my Gold:
My Wealth is theirs, and what is Vertue worth
Without a good Estate to set it forth?
Well then, since to be poor you fear and hate,
In short learn how to get a good Estate.
If thou dost light on any thing that's rare,
Send it thy old rich Neighbor, never spare,
If He be rich and old, without an Heir:
The first ripe Apples of thy choicest Tree
Offer to him before thy Deity.
The Rich Man must be reverenc't more than He.
What tho He be a Villain, basely bred,
Hath kill'd his Brother, or his Country fled:
Yet wait upon him when he please to call,
And when you meet him, cringe, and give the Wall.
What would you have me cringe to every Slave?
At Troy I did not so my self behave:
Contending always with the Great, the Brave:
Then thoul't be poor. Well Sir, my mind I'le force
To suffer this: for I have suffer'd worse.
But, prithee, tell me, for I wish to know
Which way I may be rich, and quickly too:
Then as I told, I'le tell thee o're agen,
Still strive to please, the old and wealthy Men.
Try still to get into their Wills, secure
Their Love, their Humors patiently endure;
Tho two or three discerning Eyes perceive
The Hook, and fly the Bait, yet never leave:
Others will bite when those sly Fops are gone,
Still bait thy hook, and urge thy purpose on.
If any Cause, or great or small be try'd,
I'le teach thee how to choose the better Side.
Be sure to plead for him that's childless, old,
And rich, tho He is impudently bold,
And sues his better, still pervert the Laws,
And start new Quirks, and scorn the better Cause,
And better Man, if He hath hopeful Boys
To be his Hiers, or teeming Wife enjoys.
Then Sir or Squire (for Title hugely takes
Grave softheads) Me your Friend your Vertue makes,
I know the Law, and have a ready Tongue,
And rather, Sir, then you shall suffer wrong
I'le loose these Eyes; My utmost Care be us'd
That you be neither cheated nor abus'd.
And you may take your pleasure, sit at ease,
Ne're fear, I'le pawn my Life for your success.
Do you still mind this Cause, and that alone
What ever weather 'tis, or if, the Sun
With Dog days beams cleaves e'en the marble Stone;
Or (as fat Furius hath it) all below
Is Ice, and Jove o'respews the Alps with snow.
Whilst one stands by, and jogs his Neighbor, see,
How fine a Lawyer's that, That, that is He,
How useful to his Friends, and how He sweats,
And Pleads! This brings more Gudgeons to thy Nets.
Besides, if any hath a sickly Hier
And good Estate, then make thy Interest there,
Lest courting childless Persons still, thy Arts appear.
Creep gently in, untill your hopes you seize,
Be second Heir, and rise by just degrees,
And so if your young Boys disease prevails:
Thou shalt have all: This method seldom fails.
If any bids thee read his Will, deny;
Yet slyly with the corner of thy Eye
Run quickly ore, the two or three first lines,
(There's Reason for't) and see if He designs
Thee the sole Hier, or else with many joyns.
For time shall come, as years in order flow,
When one a Scribe shall bob the gapeing Crow:
What art thou mad, or dost design to see,
If such abstruse discourse can puzle me?
Ulysses, what I sing shall be the state
Of Things to come, I read the leaves of Fate,
And distant Objects see in the event,
Then prethee tell me, what that Riddle meant.
When one, a Youth of Great Aenaeas Race,
The Parthiane terror rules the Earth and Seas;
Coranus weary of a single Life,
Takes chuff Nasica's stately maid to Wife;
Coranus then shall beg him to peruse
The Will He makes, Nasica long refuse,
At last consents, but what he reads, appears
No Legacy to Him, and His, but Tears:
Now if his Servants manage him; commend,
And make his greatest Favourite thy Friend,
Besure be lavish in his praise, and then,
When thou art gone, He'l praise Thee o're again.
This Method's good, but 'tis the best design
To storm the Man himself, and take him in.
If He makes Verses tho extremely lewd,
Admire, and swear his Fustian Rhymes are good,
Or if He whores, besure his wish prevent,
Let thy Penelope be freely sent:
And dost thou think, that she the Wise, the Chast,
Who all the numerous Woers Arts surpast,
Will yield to him, and be a Whore at last?
Ay, those were artless Youths, they knew not how
To treat, and rather came to eat then Woe;
So she was chast, but when she shall perceive,
And share with Thee, the Presents He can give,
Like Dogs once blooded, she will never leave.
I'le tell the true, and what I chanc't to know,
A woman dy'd at Thebes not long ago;
And thus by Will She did injoyn her Heir,
First oyl my Corps, and to the Sepulcher,
Upon thy naked back my Body bear.
This spake the Will, and this, as most believ'd,
That she might then slip from him she contriv'd,
For He was too observant whilst she liv'd:
Do you be cautious still in your Address:
Too often, or too seldom will displease,
The grave Morose do hate a pratling Tongue,
That speaks unask't, yet be not dumb too long:
But, like arch Davus in the Play attend,
Your neck awry, as fearful to offend:
Still show the greatest Care that can be shown,
More careful of his Life than of your own:
When e're the Air is sharp besure to mind,
And eagerly request him, pray be kind
To your dear health, and me, nor trust the Wind.
If throng'd, thrust Thou, and free him from the Throng,
If talkative, endure his tedious Tongue:
If he be vain, and loves his own dear praise,
Be sure commend and high Encomiums raise,
Still blow the Bladder never leave him off,
Till He shall bless himself, and cry, enough:
Now when he dyes, and frees thee from thy Care,
Thy dreaming Hopes, and melancholly Fear,
And broad awak't, you find that you are Heir:
Then sigh, and is my dear Campanion gone!
Where shall I have so kind, so good a One!
If possible, your greatest Art imploy
To shed some tears, 'tis good to mask your joy:
And if you are to make the Funeral,
Be sure be noble, that will take with All:
Or if thy fellow Heir's a sickly Man,
Then wheedle thus, and chouse him if you can:
I want that ready Mony you can spare,
And if you please, Sir you shall buy my share;
But hold fierce Pluto calls me back to Hell,
And I can talk no more, good speed, farewell.