Satires 2.7 (Creech): Jamdudum Ausculto

WEll Sir, I hear, and have some News to tell
But I'me affraid, you will not like it well
From me your Slave: Who Davus is it you?
Davus the faithful Servant and the true,
Davus that fancys that sufficient store,
Which nature wants supplies, and ask no more;
Go to, and as our Ancient Laws decree,
Use boldly thy December's Liberty,
Speak fairly what thou wilt, thou mayst be free.
Some Men are constant in their Vice, and run
The same Course still, and urge their purpose on:
Some are unsteddy, various in a Trice,
Now all for Vertue, and now all for Vice.
Fop Priscus with himself doth disagree,
Sometimes he wears no Rings, and sometimes three.
He changes every hour his Cloaths and Gown,
Now takes the best House, now the worst in Town,
And there he goes as nasty as a Clown.
Now studies hard at Athens, now does come,
And turns a great Gallant, and whores at Rome,
The most unsteddy, fickle Man on Earth,
As if Vertumnus self had rul'd his Birth.
Just opposite to him Vulturius stands,
For he when the just Gout had lam'd his hands,
Did hire a Boy, so much he lov'd the Vice,
To take up for him, and to throw the Dice.
He that is constant in his vicious race,
Runs the same Course, and keeps an equal pace;
Is certainly not half so great a wretch,
As He that now rides loose, and now on stretch.
Well now you Rogue, suppose this railing true,
What doth it mean? Sir it reflects on you.
How so you Rascal? Sir you use to praise
The Antients living, and commend their ways,
Yet if some God would give you leave to choose,
Or force you to the like, you would refuse.
'Cause you don't think that right you now commend,
Or else are too unsteddy to defend,
What once you thought; you stick, and strive in vain
From this deep mire to free your foot again:
At Rome, Oh how you praise the country Air!
And fickly Rome commend, when you are here:
If uninvited, Oh what dainty fare
Your little Sallat yields, and free from Care;
These troublesome Lords at Rome invite me still,
I go 'tis true, but 'tis against my will.
And happy, happy me you use to say,
That I have leave to Sup at home to day;
But if my Lord Mecoenas doth invite,
Tho you are not to go before 'tis Night;
Yet eager you by peep of day prepare,
The house straight rings, So ho, Jack, Tom, whose there?
Who brings me Oyl, you Dogs, does no one hear?
My Lords waits for me; then in hast you run,
Whilst thy Retainers curse, when thou art gone:
Well then, I grant a Feast's, a powerful Charm,
Oh the resistless force of Meat that's warm,
It leads me captive, and my Sense does seize,
I'me Glutton, Tospot, and what e're you please:
So you but freely grant your Vice at least,
As bad, altho in softer Terms 'tis drest;
Suppose I'me not so wise, as thee my Slave,
Then cease to look so haughty and so brave,
And do not rage, and do not break my head,
Whilst I discourse what Crispin's Porter said:

You love Mens Wives, and I, my little Whores,
Which is the greatest Fault now, mine or yours?
When Nature Fires, and they have quencht my flame.
I'me satisfi'd, nor do I loose my Fame,
Nor fear that they will Jilt, and entertain
A wittier, richer, and a finer Man.
But when you slily sneak abroad by night,
Your Rings and all the Habit of a Knight,
Thy Roman Garb thrown off; from nobly brave
You sink into the Figure of a Slave:
A nasty Vail thrown o're thy fragrant Head,
And softly brought to the Adulterous Bed,
Are you not such a One as you appear?
When introduc't you shake and tremble there,
Thy raging Lust disputing with thy Fear:
What difference is it whether you engage
To fight for hire, and bear the Victor's rage,
Be cut and slash't and kill'd upon the Stage?
Or by the Conscious Chamber-Maid be prest
Quite double, neck and heels into a Chest?
Hath not the injur'd Husband of the Whore
To punish both a right and Lawful Power?
And will not all his fiercest rage be just
On thee, that didst debauch her to thy Lust?
Yet she ne're changes Garb, nor shifts her place,
Nor takes such pains to get the foul embrace;
Nor injures Heaven, nor swears such Oaths as you,
Whilst the fond Creature doubts you'l prove untrue.
But wise you venture Slaves severest Fate,
And to a Man enrag'd, and swoln with hate,
Commit thy Fame, thy Life, and thy Estate.
Hast thou escap't? I hope the warning's fair,
And you'l prevent the like with greatest care,
What nothing do? What dost Thou strive to run,
The same mad Course, and be once more undone?

Oh! Slave so oft! What Beast that breaks the Chain,
Once free, will come and take the Clog again?
You say you'r no Adulterer, nor I
A Thief, because when some Observer's nigh,
I leave your Plate, though with a longing Eye.
Remove the danger and restraining force,
And Nature loose will run an evil Course.
Are you my Master? you that do appear,
A worse and greater Slave than me by far,
Whom nothing can redeem from wretched fear?
Three stroaks of th' Praetor's Rod can make me free,
Whilst Tyrant Passion still will Master Thee.
Besides,
If He's a Vicar, as you please to phrase,
(This Reason's good) that other Slaves obeys,
Or fellow Slave; Sir, I would gladly know
What 'tis that I am in respect of you?
For you, my Master, others basely serve,
Like Puppets moving by anothers Nerve.
Who then is free? The Wise, that can controle,
And Govern all the Passions of the Soul:
Whom Poverty, nor Chains, no Death affright,
And proof against the Charms of vain delight.
Whom feeble Fortune strives in vain to wound,
So closely gather'd in a perfect Round,
And so exactly smooth'd by honest Arts,
That nought without can stick upon the even Parts.
Observe this Free-man's Character, and see
If any part of it belongs to Thee:
A Thousand Pound beg'd by thy costly Whore,
And if deny'd, she turns thee out of Door,
Throws Water in thy Face, then change her mind,
And call thee back, and vow she will be kind.
Now loose your Neck from this Ignoble Chain,
And boldly say that you are free; in vain,
You can't, for Tyrant Lords thy Will controle,
They prick thee on, and scourge thy wav'ring Soul.
You, when you spend whole hours and trifle days,
Whilst You upon a piece of Painting gaze:
Why do not you commit as great a fault,
As I that stare upon a meaner draught?
Admire how Janus and how Fulvius stand,
In Fencing Postures, drawn by a rude hand,
In Chalk or Char-coal Paint, and there they look
As if they fought, and mov'd to shun the stroak:
But I'me call'd lazy Rogue, and beaten still,
A Judge in Painting You, and Man of skill.
If I but trivial Cakes delight to Eat,
'Tis Gluttony, whilst your Luxurious Treat
Is Vertue, for it shows your Mind is great.
Why now to serve my Palate should it be,
(For I am whipt) a greater Crime in Me,
Than You? Since thine's more costly Luxury,
Why then are you not scourg'd as well as I?
Because, perhaps, thy Feasts corrupt thy Blood,
Diseases spring from thy Luxurious Food,
And weakned Legs refuse the sickly Load.
Doth that Boy sin that steals a Comb by night,
To buy some Grapes to please his Appetite?
And is He faultless that when Lust Commands,
To please his lavish Belly sells his Lands?
Besides all this, You with your self can't stay
One Hour, nor rightly spend a leasure day,
You like a Vagrant shun your self, design,
Now by forgetful sleep, and now by Wine,
To steal from Cares: Poor Slave! In vain you try,
Black Care pursues as fast as you can fly.
Death! Where's my Stick? Why so? Death! Where's my Sword?
He's mad, or else makes Verses: Dog, one word,
One tittle more! You censure my Designs?
Fly Rascal, fly, or thou shalt to the Mines.