Satire XI (Gifford)

If Atticus in sumptuous fare delight,
'Tis taste: if Rutilus, 'tis madness quite:
And what diverts the sneering rabble more
Than an Apicius miserably poor?
In every company, go where you will,
Bath, forum, theatre, the talk is still
Of Rutilus!--While fit (they cry) to wield,
With firm and vigorous arm, the spear and shield,
While his full veins beat high with youthful blood,
Forced by no tribune--yet by none withstood,
He cultivates the gladiator's trade,
And learns the imperious language of the blade.
What swarms we see of this degenerate kind!
Swarms whom their creditors can only find
At flesh and fish-stalls:--thither they repair,
Sure, though deceived at home, to catch them there.
These live but for their palate; and, of these,
The most distressed (while Ruin hastes to seize
The crumbling mansion and disparting wall),
Spread richer feasts, and riot as they fall!--
Meanwhile, ere yet the last supply be spent,
They search for dainties every element,
Awed by no price; nay, making this their boast,
And still preferring that which costs them most,
Joyous, and reckless of to-morrow's fate,
To raise a desperate sum, they pledge their plate,
Or mother's fractured image; to prepare
Yet one treat more, though but in earthen ware!
Then to the fencer's mess they come, of course,
And mount the scaffold as a last resource.
No foe to sumptuous boards, I only scan,
When such are spread, the motives, and the man,
And praise or censure, as I see the feast
Or by the noble or the beggar dress'd:
In this, 'tis gluttony; in that, fit pride,
Sanctioned by wealth, by station dignified.--
Whip me the fool, who marks how Atlas soars
O'er every hill on Mauritania's shores,
Yet sees no difference 'twixt the coffer's hoards,
And the poor pittance a small purse affords!
Heaven sent us "KNOW THYSELF!"--Be this impress'd
In living characters, upon thy breast,
And still revolved; whether a wife thou choose,
Or to the SACRED SENATE point thy views.--
Or seek'st thou rather, in some doubtful cause,
To vindicate thy country's injured laws?
Knock at thy bosom, play the censor's part,
And note with caution what and who thou art,
An orator of force and skill profound,
Or a mere Matho, emptiness and sound!
Yes, KNOW THYSELF: in great concerns, in small,
Be this thy care, for this, my friend, is all:
Nor, when thy purse will scarce a gudgeon buy,
With fond intemperance for turbots sigh!
O think what end awaits thee, timely think,
If thy throat widens as thy pockets shrink,
Thy throat, of all thy father's thrift could save,
Flocks, herds, and fields, the insatiable grave!--
At length, when naught remains a meal to bring,
The last poor shift, off comes the knightly ring,
And "sad Sir Pollio" begs his daily fare,
With undistinguished hands, and finger bare!
To these, an early grave no terror brings,
"A short and merry life!" the spendthrift sings;
Death seems to him a refuge from despair,
And far less terrible than hoary hair.
Mark now the progress of their rapid fate!
Money (regardless of the monthly rate),
On every side, they borrow, and apace,
Waste what is borrowed before the lender's face:
Then, while they yet some wretched remnant hold,
And the pale usurer trembles for his gold,
They wisely sicken for the country air,
And flock to Baiæ, Ostia, Jove knows where.--
For now 'tis held (so rife the evil's grown)
No greater shame, for debt, to flee the town,
Than from the thronged Suburra to remove,
In dog-days, to the Esquilian shades above.
One thought alone, what time they leave behind
Friends, country, all, weighs heavy on their mind,
One thought alone--for twelve long months to lose
The dear delights of Rome, the public shows!
Where sleeps the modest blood! In all our veins,
No conscious drop, to form a blush, remains:
SHAME, from the town, derided, speeds her way,
And few, alas! solicit her to stay.
Enough: to-day my Persicus shall see
Whether my precepts with my life agree;
Whether, with feigned austerity, I prize
The spare repast, a glutton in disguise!
Bawl for coarse pottage, that my friends may hear,
But whisper "sweetmeats!" in my servant's ear.
For since, by promise, you are now my guest,
Know, I invite you to no sumptuous feast,
But to such simple fare, as long, long since,
The good Evander bade the Trojan prince.
Come then, my friend, you will not, sure, despise
The food that pleased the offspring of the skies;
Come, and while fancy brings past times to view,
I'll think myself the king, the hero you.
Take now your bill of fare: my simple board
Is with no dainties from the market stored,
But dishes all my own. From Tibur's stock
A kid shall come, the fattest of the flock,
The tenderest too, and yet too young to browse
The thistle's shoots, the willow's watery boughs,
With more of milk than blood; and pullets dress'd
With new-laid eggs, yet tepid from the nest,
And sperage wild, which, from the mountain's side,
My housemaid left her spindle to provide;
And grapes long kept, yet pulpy still, and fair,
And the rich Signian and the Syrian pear;
And apples, that in flavor and in smell
The boasted Picene equal, or excel:--
Nor need you fear, my friend, their liberal use,
For age has mellowed and improved their juice.
How homely this! and yet this homely fare
A senator would, once, have counted rare;
When the good Curius thought it no disgrace
O'er a few sticks a little pot to place,
With herbs by his small garden-plot supplied--
Food, which the squalid wretch would now deride,
Who digs in fetters, and, with fond regret,
The tavern's savory dish remembers yet!
Time was, when, on the rack, a man would lay
The seasoned flitch, against a solemn day;
And think the friends who met, with decent mirth,
To celebrate the hour which gave him birth,
On this, and what of fresh the altars spared
(For altars then were honored), nobly fared.
Some kinsman, who had camps and senates swayed,
Had thrice been consul, once dictator made,
From public cares retired, would gayly haste,
Before the wonted hour, to such repast,
Shouldering the spade, that, with no common toil,
Had tamed the genius of the mountain soil.--
Yes, when the world was filled with Rome's just fame,
And Romans trembled at the Fabian name,
The Scauran, and Fabrician; when they saw
A censor's rigor even a censor awe,
No son of Troy e'er thought it his concern,
Or worth a moment's serious care, to learn,
What land, what sea, the fairest tortoise bred,
Whose clouded shell might best adorn his bed.--
His bed was small, and did no signs impart
Or of the painter's or the sculptor's art,
Save where the front, cheaply inlaid with brass,
Showed the rude features of a vine-crowned ass;
An uncouth brute, round which his children played,
And laughed and jested at the face it made!
Briefly, his house, his furniture, his food,
Were uniformly plain, and simply good.
Then the rough soldier, yet untaught by Greece
To hang, enraptured, o'er a finished piece,
If haply, 'mid the congregated spoils
(Proofs of his power, and guerdon of his toils),
Some antique vase of master-hands were found,
Would dash the glittering bauble on the ground;
That, in new forms, the molten fragments dress'd,
Might blaze illustrious round his courser's chest,
Or, flashing from his burnished helmet, show
(A dreadful omen to the trembling foe)
The mighty sire, with glittering shield and spear,
Hovering, enamored, o'er the sleeping fair,
The wolf, by Rome's high destinies made mild,
And, playful at her side, each wondrous child.
Thus, all the wealth those simple times could boast,
Small wealth! their horses and their arms engross'd;
The rest was homely, and their frugal fare,
Cooked without art, was served in earthen ware:
Yet worthy all our envy, were the breast
But with one spark of noble spleen possess'd.
THEN shone the fanes with majesty divine,
A present god was felt at every shrine!
And solemn sounds, heard from the sacred walls,
At midnight's solemn hour, announced the Gauls,
Now rushing from the main; while, prompt to save,
Stood Jove, the prophet of the signs he gave!
Yet, when he thus revealed the will of fate,
And watched attentive o'er the Latian state,
His shrine, his statue, rose of humble mould,
Of artless form, and unprofaned with gold.
Those good old times no foreign tables sought;
From their own woods the walnut-tree was brought,
When withering limbs declared its pith unsound,
Or winds uptore, and stretched it on the ground.
But now, such strange caprice has seized the great,
They find no pleasure in the costliest treat,
Suspect the flowers a sickly scent exhale,
And think the ven'son rank, the turbot stale,
Unless wide-yawning panthers, towering high--
Enormous pedestals of ivory,
Formed of the teeth which Elephantis sends,
Which the dark Moor, or darker Indian, vends,
Or those which, now, too heavy for the head,
The beasts in Nabathea's forest shed--
The spacious ORBS support: then they can feed,
And every dish is delicate indeed!
For silver feet are viewed with equal scorn,
As iron rings upon the finger worn.
To me, forever be the guest unknown,
Who, measuring my expenses by his own,
Remarks the difference with a scornful leer,
And slights my humble house and homely cheer.
Look not to me for ivory; I have none:
My chess-board and my men are all of bone;
Nay, my knife-handles; yet, my friend, for this,
My pullets neither cut nor taste amiss.
I boast no artist, tutored in the school
Of learned Trypherus, to carve by rule;
Where large sow-paps of elm, and boar, and hare,
And phœnicopter, and pygargus rare,
Getulian oryx, Scythian pheasants, point,
The nice anatomy of every joint;
And dull blunt tools, severing the wooden treat,
Clatter around, and deafen all the street.
My simple lad, whose highest efforts rise
To broil a steak in the plain country guise,
Knows no such art; humbly content to serve,
And bring the dishes which he can not kerve.
Another lad (for I have two to-day),
Clad, like the first, in homespun russet gray,
Shall fill our earthen bowls: no Phrygian he,
No pampered attribute of luxury,
But a rude rustic:--when you want him, speak,
And speak in Latin, for he knows not Greek.
Both go alike, with close-cropp'd hair, undress'd,
But spruced to-day in honor of my guest;
And both were born on my estate, and one
Is my rough shepherd's, one, my neatherd's son.
Poor youth! he mourns, with many an artless tear,
His long, long absence from his mother dear;
Sighs for his little cottage, and would fain
Meet his old playfellows, the goats, again.
Though humble be his birth, ingenuous grace
Beams from his eye, and flushes in his face;
Charming suffusion! that would well become
The youthful offspring of the chiefs of Rome.--
He, Persicus, shall fill us wine which grew
Where first the breath of life the stripling drew,
On Tibur's hills;--dear hills, that many a day
Witnessed the transports of his infant play.
But you, perhaps, expect a wanton throng
Of Gaditanian girls, with dance and song,
To kindle loose desire; girls, that now bound
Aloft with active grace, now, on the ground,
Quivering, alight, while peals of praise go round.
Lo! wives, beside their husbands placed, behold,
What could not in their ear, for shame, be told;
Expedients of the rich, the blood to fire,
And wake the dying embers of desire.
Behold? O heavens! they view, with keenest gust,
These strong provocatives of jaded lust;
With every gesture feel their passions rise,
And draw in pleasure both at ears and eyes!
Such vicious fancies are too great for me.
Let him the wanton dance unblushing see,
And hear the immodest terms which, in the stews,
The veriest strumpet would disdain to use,
Whose drunken spawlings roll, tumultuous, o'er
The proud expansion of a marble floor:
For there the world a large allowance make,
And spare the folly for the fortune's sake.--
Dice, and adultery, with a small estate,
Are damning crimes; but venial, with a great;
Venial? nay, graceful: witty, gallant, brave,
And such wild tricks "as gentlemen should have!"
My feast, to-day, shall other joys afford:
Hushed as we sit around the frugal board.
Great Homer shall his deep-toned thunder roll,
And mighty Maro elevate the soul;
Maro, who, warmed with all the poet's fire,
Disputes the palm of victory with his sire:
Nor fear my rustic clerks; read as they will,
The bard, the bard, shall rise superior still!
Come then, my friend, an hour to pleasure spare,
And quit awhile your business and your care;
The day is all our own: come, and forget
Bonds, interest, all; the credit and the debt;
Nay, e'en your wife: though, with the dawning light,
She left your couch, and late returned at night;
Though her loose hair in wild disorder flowed,
Her eye yet glistened, and her cheek yet glowed,
Her rumpled girdle busy hands express'd--
Yet, at my threshold, tranquilize your breast;
There leave the thoughts of home, and what the haste
Of heedless slaves may in your absence waste;
And, what the generous spirit most offends,
O, more than all, leave there UNGRATEFUL FRIENDS.
But see! the napkin, waved aloft, proclaims
The glad commencement of the Idæan games,
And the proud prætor, in triumphal state,
Ascends his car, the arbiter of fate!
Ere this, all Rome (if 'tis, for once, allowed,
To say all Rome, of so immense a crowd)
The Circus throngs, and--Hark! loud shouts arise--
From these, I guess the GREEN has won the prize;
For had it lost, all joy had been suppress'd,
And grief and horror seized the public breast;
As when dire Carthage forced our arms to yield,
And poured our noblest blood on Cannæ's field.
Thither let youth, whom it befits, repair,
And seat themselves beside some favorite fair,
Wrangle, and urge the desperate bet aloud;
While we, retired from business and the crowd,
Stretch our shrunk limbs by sunny bank or stream,
And drink, at every pore, the vernal beam.
Haste, then: for we may use our freedom now,
And bathe, an hour ere noon, with fearless brow--
Indulge for once:--Yet such delights as these,
In five short morns, would lose the power to please;
For still, the sweetest pleasures soonest cloy,
And its best flavor temperance gives to joy.