Epistles 2.2 (Creech): Flore Bono Claroque

DEar Florus, Nero's Friend, the Great, the Brave,
Suppose one come to sell a Clownish Slave,
And speak Thee thus, This Boy is neatly made,
He's sound from Head to Foot, a pretty Lad.
For Twenty Pound he's Yours, the Bargain's fair,
He'll serve, and fit your humor to a hair:
He's yet soft Clay, he'll take a Stamp with ease,
And you may form him, Sir, to what you please.
He speaks some Greek, and at a drinking Match
He'll bear the Bob, and sing a merry Catch.
To praise too much like a design appears,
When He extolls that would put off his Wares:
I a' n't in want, I am in debt to none,
What e're I have, tho little, 'tis my own;
Few, Sir, would tell you this, and tell you true,
Nor I my self to any one but you;
This Boy was faulty once, He stay'd at play,
And when He fear'd the lash he run away:
Buy if you like him now his faults are told.
The dealing's fair, and he may take your Gold,
And ne're be thought a cheat for what He sold.
You bought a faulty Rogue, he told you so,
And yet you vex him, and unjustly sue.
At parting, Sir, I said I was unfit,
Grown lazy, impotent, and slow to write:
Lest for not Writing You should chide, accuse
My silence as unkind, and scorn my Muse;
Ah what did that avail to set me free!
Yet if You sue me, Sir, the Law's for me.
But You complain beside, you say, my Lord;
I promis'd you some Odes, yet break my word.
Thro thousand dangers and a world of pain,

Lucullus Souldier, who had strove to gain
A little mony, what with care he kept,
Once tir'd, lost every penny as he slept.
Thence He a very Wolf and angry grown
Both with himself and Foe rusht boldly on,
And with his Teeth as 'twere o'rethrew a Town
Tho strong and well provided with a Guard,
This got him credit, and a large reward;
Soon after when they were to storm a Town
The Captain chose out him, and eg'd him on,
With such affection, such warm words he prest
As might inflame the coldest Coward's breast:
Go where thy Vertue calls, go Conqueror go,
Thy Friends shall give rewards, and spoyls thy Foe.
But Crafty He reply'd, No Town I'le force,
No Sir, He'l venture that hath lost his purse.
Rome bred me first, she taught me Grammar rules,
And all the little Authors red in Schools.
A little more than this learn'd Athens show'd,
And taught me how to separate Bad from Good;
The Academick Sect possest my Youth,
And 'midst their pleasant shades I sought for Truth.
But rough Times drove me from my blest retreat,
And tost me thro the Troubles of the Great.
Tho rude in Arms, and tho well learn'd in fears,
The tide yet bore me on to Civil Wars.
When those had clipt my wings and brought me down,
My small Farm lost, and all my mony gone;
Those with my Shield I left by shameful flight;
Bold Poverty first set me on to write.
But now I have enough to keep off want,
(That is as much as Heaven it self can grant)
What Helebore could cure my wild disease,
Should I prefer a Muse before my Ease!
On me each circling Year does make a prey,
It steals my Humor, and my Mirth away.
And now at last would steal my Poems too
From my Embrace; what would You have me do?
Besides not all admire, not all approve
One sort; You Odes, Iambics others love,
Others in keenest Satyrs rage delight;
Sharp salt alone can raise their appetite:
Methinks I've three envited to a Feast,
A different palate too, to every Guest.
What shall, what shall I not provide? What You
Commend and eat, disgusts the other two.
Besides, do'st think that I can mind a Song
Whilst here at Rome 'midst all the noise and throng.
Of different Cares, one beggs me pass my word
For him, then I must wait upon my Lord,
To hear his Verses, and I must be gone,
Leave all my other work and cares alone,
And march from one to t'other end of Town
"But, Sir, there's room, the Street is clean and still,
"And you may walk and think on what you will.
Yes, here a Waggon bears a logg of Wood
Or weighty Stone, and groans beneath the Load.
Sad Funeral here do justle with a Dray,
And there the sweaty Carman bawls for way.
Here a Mad Dog, and there a Sow doth fright,
Go now 'midst this, and lofty Verses write.
Each Writer hates the Town and Woods approves,
Right Son of Bacchus pleas'd with shades and groves.
Yet 'midst these Tumults You would have me try
To trace the narrow steps of Poetry.
The Man that takes learn'd Athens close retreat,
Who by himself doth study to be great;
When he hath study'd seven full tedious Years,
Grown old and grey upon his Books and Cares:
Yet after all this time and pains bestow'd,
Grows a meer stock, and's laught at by the Crowd.
Then 'midst the Waves and Tempests of the Town,
Where Cares do toss and vexing business drown,
Can I compose my thoughts, can I aspire,
And Joyn fit words to tune the Roman Lyre?

Two Brothers liv'd at Rome, a Lawyer one,
And one a Rhetor noted both in Town,
Vain glorious both, and studious of a name,
They blew their Trumpets to each others Name.
They one another did extreamly please;
And are not Poets frantick quite like These?
I Odes, and one writes Elegy; Divine,
A curious work, polisht by all the Nine.
See how we strut, and what a port we bear,
With what high scorn look, o're the Theater,
The other Poets sneak and scarce appear.
But if You've leasure stand aside and know
Why each admires and praises t'other so,
Why wreath the Crown, and why the Bays bestow.
We quarrel, and with equal Fortune fight,
True Samnites draw the lingring War till Night.
Then strait in his Opinion I'me divine
Alcaeus, well, and what is He in Mine.
Callimachus, or would he more? Mimnermus Fame
He gets, and glorys in his borrow'd Name.
A Thousand things I suffer to asswage
The waspish Poets, and to cool their rage;
Because I write my self, I plead their Cause,
I smooth, and humbly beg the Crowds applause;
But when grown sober I shake off my Muse,
I'le stop my Ears, and unless hir'd to hear, refuse:
Dull Rhymes are laugh't at, yet we ne're give o're,
Our Writers smile, and e'en themselves adore,
If you are slow to clap they swear 'tis spite,
And praise themselves what happy they have writ.

But He that hath a curious Piece design'd,
When He begins must take a Censor's mind.
Severe and honest, and what words appear,
Too light and trivial or too weak to bear
The weighty sense, nor worth the Readers care,
Shake off; tho stubborn, they are loth to move,
And tho we fancy dearly, tho we love.
Good words, now grown obscure, bring gently forth,
Relieve them from the dark, and show their worth
Us'd by the Antients tho consum'd by rage
Of eating time, and grown deform'd with Age:
And take new words begot by Parent use,
Prune the luxuriant, and Correct the loose.
Pure, flowing, as a River roul along,
And bring new plenty to the Roman Tongue;
Reform, and cut superfluous Branches off;
Strengthen the weaker words, and smooth the rough:
Now pain'd, now eas'd, as one that must put on
Now wanton Satyrs, now a heavy Clown:
Now I had rather be a little Witt,
So my dull Verse my own dear self delight,
Then know my Faults, be vext, and dy with spight.
An Argive Gentleman as Stories say,
Did always fancy that he saw a Play,
The Actors dress, and well wrought Scenes appear,
And clap't and smil'd in th' empty Theater.
In all Things else he shew'd a sober Mind,
A loving Neighbor and an honest Friend;
Kind to his Wife, and generous to his Slave,
Nor when he saw the Barrel broach't would rave.
Would shun an open Well, and dangerous Pitts,
And seem a perfect Man, and in his Witts,
Him when his tender Friends with Cost and Pains
Had cur'd, and Physic gently purg'd his Brains,
He cry'd, Ah me! my Friends I am undone,
You've ruin'd me, now all my pleasure's gone;
You have destroy'd, whilst you design'd to save,
Y've lost the pleasant'st Cheat that man could have.

'Tis time now to be wise, forsake my Toys,
And leave my Verses proper sport for Boys.
Not follow Words and Numerous Songs contrive,
But seek fit measures, and true rules to live.

If what you drink should make your heats increase,
Would you not tell the Doctor your disease?
Now when the more you have, you crave the more,
When Floods of Store, shall make you thirst for store,
Won't you confess and this distemper own?
All this I use to think on when alone.
Suppose You had a Wound, and One had show'd
An Herb, which you apply'd but found no good,
Would You be fond of this, increase your pain,
And use the fruitless remedy again?
Thus when You hear on whom kind Heaven bestows
Great heaps of Wealth, they streight their folly loose.
And yet you cannot find your self more wise,
Because more rich, you I follow their advice.
Could Wealth with God-like Prudence Minds Inspire,
Cure them of vexing Fear, and fond Desire.
Then you should blush, if all the World could show,
A sober Man, more covetous than You.
If that's o[...]r own, which powerful Coin procures,
And Use, as Lawyers say, makes something ours;
The Field that feeds thee's thine; rich Orbus ploughs,
His Servant that Manures his Land, and Sows,
Harrows the fruitful Clod, that must afford
Good Corn to Thee, confesses thee his Lord:
One pays his Money, and receives agen,
Eggs, Pullets, Grapes, or else a flask of Wine.
And thus by these degrees the Farm he buys,
Bought at three Thousand pound, or at a greater price.
Well then, what difference is it whether now,
You pay for what you have, or did it long agoe?
Those Purchasers that Veijs Fields have gain'd,
And large Aricia's Plains, tho rich in land,
Yet even now buy every Herb they eat,
They buy each stick of Wood to boyl their Meat.
Altho they think not so, and call the Grounds
Their own, which yonder friendly Poplar bounds.
As if that could be thine, that call'd thy own,
Which every Moment's hurry'd up and down,
And now to this, and now to 'tother thrown,
Which Money, Fraud or Flattery command,
And snatch from one, to fill another's Hand:
So since perpetual Use to none's allow'd,
But Heir crowds Heir, as in a rowling Flood
Wave urges Wave, ah what doth it avail,
To joyn large Groves to Grove, and Vale to Vale,
If Death with equal hand, strikes Great and Small,
Death unrelenting, and that never spares,
Not to be brib'd with Gold, or won by Tears:
Gold, Jewels, Statues, Marble, Ivory,
Paint, Cloth of Gold, and Suits of pretious dye,
Gay Purple, Silver, some are wont to crave,
Yet cannot get, and some don't care to have.
Why of two Twins, the one his Pleasure loves,
Prefers his Sports to Herod's fragrant Groves;
The other rich, and greedy of his Gain,
With Fire and Iron tames his woody Plain,
He drives the heavy Plough from Morn till Night,
His Labour's pleasure, and his Pain delight:
That Genius only knows, that's wont to wait,
On birth-day Stars, the guider of our Fate,
Our Nature's God, that doth his Influence shed,
Easy to any Shape, or good or bad:
When Natures wants require, I will be free,
Nor care what my bold heir will think of me,
I'le use my little Heap, tho he be griev'd,
Because I leave no more than I receiv'd,
Yet I the same would know, what difference lyes
Between free spending, and loose squandring vice,
And how far Thrift's remov'd from Avarice.
For sure it differs much to wast our Store,
And to spend freely, and not strive for more:
And as i'th' five days feast, of old, the Boy,
Take the short Sweets, and as in hast enjoy.
I am not rich, nor do I gape for more,
But let me not be scandalously poor,
And let my Ship be great, or be it small,
If I the same, the very, I can sail.