Epistles 1.16 (Creech): Ne Perconteris

ASk me not, Quintus, what my Farm doth yield,
Whether 'tis Hay or Corn that crowns my Feild;
Elms cloath'd with Vines, or Fruit, or Olives rise,
I'le tell you what it is, and how it lies.
A ridge of Hills a shady Rale divides,
And takes the Suns kind Rays on both her sides;
The right hand opens to the rising day,
The left hand gently takes the setting Ray;
You like the Clime: If every Hedge that grows
Doth blush in Cornoils, or doth mourn in Sloes,
If Beechen Groves and fruitful Oaks afford
Meat for my Cattle, Shades for me their Lord,
You'd think Tarentum's pleasant Feilds remove
To wait on me, and spread a shady Grove.
A pleasant Spring, almost a River flows,
Not Heber's Streams the Thracian Feilds inclose
With waves more cool and clear; The waters spread
To purge the Stomach good, and cleanse the Head.
These pleasant (nay 'tis true) these sweet retreats,
Preserve my Health amid'st the Summers Heats.

And you live well if what Fame says be true,
For all admire, and Rome doth boast of you.
She calls you happy, but, my Friend, I fear
You more believe what others say you are,
Than what you know your self:
Esteem none happy but the Wise and Good.
Nor when you're flatter'd by the heedless Crowd
That you look well, dissemble thy disease,
Sit down to feast, and give it time to seize,
Until it shakes, and thou canst eat no more:
'Tis foolish shame to hide a fest'ring Sore.
Suppose one speaks of Wars and noble Fights,
And with these words thy empty Ears delights;
Jove who for You, and for the People cares
Leaves still in doubt whose safety most prefers,
The People Yours, or else the People's you,
Dost see his praise is only Caesar's due?
Yet when they call the Good canst Thou agree?
Canst Thou consent that That belongs to Thee?
For you and I both love the Crowd should say
That we are good, but what that gives to day,
To morrow if it please it takes away:
As when it Offices on Fools bestows,
They call them back, and scorn the Man they chose:
Lay down, tis ours They cry, I lay it down
Poor naked Wretch, and griev'd depart, and frown:
The same Crowd calls me Thief, they pass a vote
That I'me unchast, or cut my Fathers throat;
And with false Scandals bite me; must I fear,
Must I look pale for this? or shed a tear?
False honors please, and false reports disgrace
And trouble, Whom? The vitious and the base:
Who then is Good? Why He that keeps the Laws,
And antient Rites; whose Word secures a Cause:
Who reconciles his Neighbours, free from Strife,
And seems to lead a fair and honest Life:
Yet all his Neighbours know him base within,
His outside's fair, his inside's black with Sin.
Suppose my Slave should say, I neither fly,
Nor steal: Well, Thou hast thy reward say I,
Thou art not Scourg'd, I never kill'd a Man,
Well, Thou shalt not be hang'd, or torn with pain,
But I am thristy, honest, good, and wise,
Sabellus cannot grant it, nay denys:
For crafty Foxes dread the secret Snare,
The Kite and Hawk, altho the bait be fair,
Yet never stoop where they suspect a Gin;
The Good for Vertue's sake abhor a Sin.
'Tis fear of Punishment restrains thy Will,
Give leave, how eagerly would'st thou be ill?
Suppose you steal few Grains from stores of Wheat,
The Loss, 'tis true, is less, the Crime's as great:
The Man that's honest in the Peoples Eyes,
When e're He kills a costly Sacrifice,
A Pig or Bull, and whilst his Vows are good,
Apollo, Janus hear, he prays aloud.
But murmurs softly, to be heard afraid,
Good, Good Laverna hear me, grant me aid
For such a Cheat, let all believe me Good,
Let me seem just and honest to the Crowd,
And o're my Cheats, and Forgeries spread a Cloud.
How are the Covetous than Slaves more free,
That basely stoop for every Pin they see
I can't imagine. He that still doth crave
Must fear, and He that fears must be a Slave;
For He hath lost his Arms, and basely fled,
Left Vertues Camp, and all her Laws betray'd;
That's eager to be rich, that strives for more,
Goes on, and dyes beneath the weighty Store:
Forbear to kill the Captive thou canst sell,
His work will bring thee gain, He'll serve Thee well:
Whether He Tills thy Field, or Feeds thy Sheep,
Or Sails, and Winters in the raging Deep:
A Man that's Good and Wise will boldly say,
Well Pentheus King of Thebes, Why this delay?
Pray what must I expect? What must I fear,
What undeserv'd must I be forc't to bear?
I'le take away thy Goods: My Flocks, my Land,
You may, 'tis subject all to Your Command:
I'le Chain and Rob Thee of thy Liberty,
Ah God, when e're I please, will set me free,
I think I know what these his words design,
I'le dye, of Things Death is the utmost Line.