Epistles 1.17 (Creech): Quamvis, Scaeva

THo Scaeva Thou hast Wit enough to choose
The Great-Mens favour, and art skill'd to use;
Yet hear what thy unskillful Friend can say,
As if one Blind pretends to show the way;
Yet see a while if what is fairly shown
Be good, and such as you may make your own:
If you delight in Ease, and quiet joys,
If ratling Coaches, and the Tavern's noise
Disturbs Thee, Scaeva, then refuse the Charms
Of Greatness, live upon thy little Farms;
"For Pleasures do not follow only Wealth:
"Nor lives He ill, that lives and dyes by stealth:
But if you love to aim at nobler Ends,
And would be able to assist your Friends,
Live well thy self, and better thy Estate,
Now thou art dry, go soak upon the Fat:
If Aristippus patiently could Dine
On Herbs, He would the Courts of Kings decline:
If He that censures me knew how to use
The Courts of Kings, He would his Herbs refuse:
Now which of these you think is best declare;
Or else, my Junior you, with patience hear
Why Aristippus humor's best; for thus
He bob'd the Cynick, as the story goes:
I for my self, to please the People you
Break Jests; my way's the better of the Two:
I do my Duty, free from fear or force;
To carry me the King provides a Horse,
Whilst you beg scraps; and tho you boast you live,
And nothing want, art less than those that give:
All Fortune fitted Aristippus well,
Aiming at greater, pleas'd with what befell:
But for the Cynick, I should think it strange,
If He could look but comely in a change:
The One will not expect a Purple Coat,
But howsoever cloath'd, He walks about,
Thro Court and Town, and with a decent Art,
In either habit neatly acts his Part:
But Purple, or a Gown of Cloth of Gold,
The other hates, and He will dye with Cold,
Unless you will his tatter'd Rags restore,
Go give him Rags, and let the Fool be poor:
To War, and Triumph's near Jove's glorious Throne,
'Tis all Divine, 'tis Caesar's work alone:
To please the Great is not the smallest praise,
Not all can go to Corinth now adays;
He never strives that doth despair to gain,
Well, doth He bravely act that doth obtain?
Yet here or no where we may hope to find
What we desire: By one the weight's declin'd,
Too great for his small strength, and little mind:
Another ventures, takes, and bears the same,
Or Vertue is a show, an empty name,
Or He that trys, walks right to Wealth and Fame.
The Man that's silent, nor proclaims his want,
Gets more than him that makes a loud complaint:
It differs whether fairly you receive,
Or rudely snatch the things the Great can give,
Yet that's the chifest measure how to live:
My Mother's poor, my Farm's too mean to sell,
And yet not yields enough to keep me well,
My Niece a Portion wants, my Fortune's low,
He that says thus, He crys aloud, Bestow:
And when He hath it, others rise and say,
Divide the Booty, We will share the Prey;
But could the talking Crow in quiet eat,
His Envy had been less, but more his Meat:
A small retainer in a Noble's Train
To fair Surrentum, that doth still complain,
The Road is bad, it Rains, 'tis very Cold;
My Chest is rifled, and I've lost my Gold;
Does like the Jilting Whores that often mourn,
Ah me! my Garter's lost, my Hood is torn,
Until at last unheeding the Complaint,
We give no credit to their real want:
A Man that hath been once abus'd grows shy,
He views a Cripple with an heedless Eye;
Nor lends a helping hand, altho He Swears
By Isis, soft'ning every Oath with Tears,
Believe me I'me no Cheat, and sadly crys,
O Cruel, help the Lame: The Crowd replies,
Go seek a Stranger to believe thy Lyes.