Epistles 1.1 (Creech): Prima Dicte Mihi

MY Lord Mecaenas whom I gladly choose,
The first, and the last labour of my Muse;
Tho I have fought enough, and well before,
And now dismist, have leave to fight no more:
You strive to bring me on the Stage again;
My Age is not alike, unlike my Brain,
Unlike my Mind, and now I write in Pain:
The Fencer Vejan now grown weak with Age,
Lives quietly at home, and leaves the Stage;
His Arms in great Alcides Temple plac't,
Lest after all his former Glorys past,
He worsted, meanly beg his life at last:
And still methinks sounds thro my well purg'd Ear,
A little voice, Fond Horace have a Care,
And whilst 'tis well release thy aged Horse,
Lest when He runs but with unequal force,
And stretches hard to win, He breaks his Wind,
Derided, distanc't, basely lags behind:

And therefore all my trifling Songs adieu,
I now design to seek what's good and true,
And that alone; I scorn my wanton Muse,
And lay up Precepts, such as I may use;
But if you ask me now what Sect I own,
I swear a blind obedience unto none:
But as the Tempest drives me so I Steer,
This way or that, not setled any where:
Sometimes an Active Life my Fancy draws,
A strict observer of true Vertue's Laws:
Then gently slide to Aristippus School,
And strive not to be rul'd by Things, but Rule:
As Night to those their Mistress fails appears,
As Days to Labourers, and as long the Years,
When Jealous Mothers curb, to eager Heirs:
So dull, and so ingrate my Time doth flow,
Which hinders what I hope and wish to do:
What done will profit Rich and Poor, what long
Forborn, prove equal harm to Old and Young:
Well, then I must content my self with this,
Yours cannot be as good as Lynceus Eyes,
What then, when Sore must I fit Cures despise?
You cannot Hope to have your Limbs as great
As Glyco's, nor so strong and firmly set,
Yet to prevent the Gout hast Thou no care?
What, if of farther progress you despair,
'Tis somewhat surely to have gone thus far:
Doth creeping Avarice thy mind engage?
Or doth it boyl with fiery Lust, and rage?
Why, there are Rules and Precepts that can Ease
Thy Pain, and Cure great part of thy Disease:
Or art Thou Vain? Books yield a certain Spell,
To stop thy Tumor; You shall cease to swell,
When you have read them thrice, and studied well:
The Rash, the Lazy, Lover, none's so wild,
But may be tame, and may be wisely mild,
If they consult true Vertue's Rules with care,
And lend to good advice a patient ear.

'Tis Vertue, Sir, to be but free from Vice,
And the first step tow'rds being truly Wise
Is to want folly; You use all your skill,
To shun what you suppose the greatest ill,
A small Estate, or whilst you seek to gain
An Office, a Repulse; You spare no pain,
You try your utmost Wit, and rack your Brain:
You Sail to India, You forsake your ease,
Thro raging Storms, thro Rocks and boisterous Seas,
Thro Heat and Cold, and gather every Wind,
To get more Wealth, and leave pale Want behind;
And yet thou wilt not take the pains to hear
A wiser Man advise Thee how to Steer:
Who kindly bids Thee check thy wild desire,
And leave what Thou dost foolishly admire:
What Wrestler that shall strive in every Town,
At every Wake will scorn th' Olympian Crown?
Who doth not cheap and easie wreaths disdain?
And who would have a Crown without the Pain

The saying's true, and hath been often told,
Silver's more base than Gold, than Vertue Gold:
O Romans, Romans, Gold must first be sought,
Then Vertue, that's worth but a second thought:
This is the Tune of every Trading Fool,
Old Men, and every Boy repeats this Rule,
That with his Books and Satchel goes to School:
If you have not Ten Thousand Pound in store,
But want a Thousand or a little more,
Tho you have Vertue, Constancy, and skill
In Arts, thou shalt be thought a Common still:
And yet our Boys another Tale will tell,
And say, You shall be King if you do well;
Be this thy Guard, and this thy strong defence,
A vertuous Heart, and unstain'd Innocence;
Not to be conscious of a shameful sin:
Nor yet look pale for Scarlet Crimes within.
Now prethee tell me which you think is best,
Or Otho's Law, or this by Boys exprest,
This Song which makes the Vertuous Man a King
And which the Noble Ancients us'd to sing?
Which best adviseth, He that bids thee hate
Thy Common rank, and get a vast Estate,
Justly, if canst; if not, at any rate;
Only that at a Play or Puppet Show,
You may sit nearer by a Seat or two?
Or He that bids Thee Steer a Vertuous Course,
And nobly scorn, proud feeble Fortune's force?

Should the Crowd ask, why since I live in Town,
Walk the same Streets with them, I do not own
The same Opinion? Why I don't approve,
And hate the Things that they do hate and love?
My Answer must be what sly Reynard said
To the old sickly Lion, I'me afraid,
Great King of Beasts, for all the treads I see
Are to thy Den, none back, that frightens me:
Thou art a Many-headed Monster, Rome,
I know not what to imitate, or whom:
Some love to Farm Revenues, others Bait
With Gifts to catch a Widdows great Estate:
Whilst others spread their Nets for wealthy Fools,
And catch them, and secure the doating Shoals:
Some by base Usury their Wealth increase:
But grant that various Humors various please:
Yet are They constant still, do they approve
For one hours time together what They love?
For instance, If the wealthy Wanton says,
This little Baiae is the pleasant'st place;
His hasty wishes no delays afford,
And the Sea quickly sees her loving Lord:
There if his fancy leads another way,
As if a Sign from Heaven He must obey;
Come Work-men gather up your Tools, and drive
To morrow to Theanum, there I'le live:
Doth He design to day to take a Wife?
No life, He cries, is like a single life:
If not, He Swears the marry'd only blest;
What Chain can hold this varying Proteus fast?
What doth the Poor Man? Laugh, he shifts his home,
His Baths, His Barbers, and his eating Room,
Or hires a paltry Sculler for a Groat,
And spews like Nobles in their Pleasure-Boat:
Suppose some blundering Barbers notch my hair
And then I meet you, streight you smile and stare
Or if my Gown is botch't, my Vest unfit,
My Cloaths ill made, You laugh at such a sight:
What when my Mind is with it self at strife,
And disagrees in all the Course of Life;
When what it hated now, it now desires,
What now it threw away, it now admires,
Unsettled as the Sea, or flitting Air,
It razes, builds, and changes round to square;
You count me mad in Fashion, you forbear
To laugh, nor think I need a Doctor's care;
Or Guardian from the Praetor, tho my Friend,
On whom my Fortunes, and my Life depend,
Who grieves if I but cut my Finger's end.
In short, the Wise Man's less than Jove alone,
For all is His, and He himself's his own;
Rich, King of Kings, and of a Noble Stem,
But chiefly well, unless when vex't with Flegm.