Epistles 1.15 (Creech): Quae Sit Hiems Veliae

DEar Vala prithee quickly send me word,
What Velia, what Salernum can afford;
How hot the Winter? If the Air be good,
What manner'd Men live there? and what's the Road:
(True, my Physician tells me I may use
The Bajan Baths, but those their help refuse,
Because in Winter cooler Streams I choose.
That I should leave their Groves, their Sulphurous Stream,
So fam'd for curing knotty Gouts, contemn;
The whole Town mourns, and curses the Disease,
That makes us seek the Clusian Springs for Ease:
That makes us leave her Groves, her warmer Seat,
For unfrequented Gaby's cool retreat.
To change my Station now I must begin,
And force my Horse beyond my usual Inn:
So ho, where now the angry Riders say,
And stifly pull the Rein, that's not the way,
I'me not for Bay or Cume: then gently sooths,
But bridled Horses Ears are in their mouths)
Which yields the most, and which the sweetest Grain,
Whether they set out Tubs to catch the Rain,
Or else have constant Springs, their Water clear,
For I don't like the Wine they fancy there:
(True, when at home, then any Drink will please,
But when I go abroad to take my Ease,
Enjoy Seas warmth, my thoughts from Cares reprieve,
My Liquor must be good, if I would Live:
Such as will fill my Veins with gen'rous fire,
Bring certain hopes of Health, and thoughts inspire:
Such as may make my wanton Wishes rise,
And show me young and grateful to my Miss:)
Where most Hares run, most Bores infest the Plains,
Which Sea most Oysters, which most Fish contains,
That whilst I live I may be plump and gay;
You write me word, I'le credit what you say:
Menius when all his little Lands were gone,
All loosely spent, and He a Man o'th' Town;
A Bully, at no certain board He Din'd,
No house to lodge, but rail'd at Foe and Friend;
A bitter Rogue to Jeer, and sharp to Feign,
Severe to Scandalize; the very Bane
And Ruine of the Shambles; what He got
He swallow'd; all went down his greedy Throat.
He when his Cheats not answer'd his desires,
When little came from Fops, and bubbl'd Squires,
Would feed on Guts, and on the vilest Meat,
Swallowing as much as three large Bears could Eat;
And sober He, whilst thus he hardly far'd,
Would have forsooth the Spend-thrifts Bellies sear'd:
Yet the same Menius when his gains were more,
And on his Gut he wasted all his Store,
Turn'd all to Smoak and Ashes, us'd to cry,
No wonder, faith, to see that Men feed high,
When not the World a fairer sight can show,
Than the large pickled Belly of a Sow:
I'me just like him, when poor, Oh how I love,
The safe and little Store, and how approve!
When Rich, then those are blest, and only those,
Whose stately House their hidden Treasure shows,
None live so well, none take such soft repose.