h Learn to live will, or fairly make your will; You 've play'd, and lov'd, and eat, and drank your fill: Walk fober off; before a sprightlier age Comes tittering on, and shoves you from the stage: Leave such to trifle with more grace and ease, Whom Folly pleases, and whose Follies please.

h Vivere si recte nefcis, decede peritis.
Lufifti fatis, edisti satis, atque bibisti:
Tempus abire tibi eft: ne potum largius aequo
Rideat, et pulfet lasciva decentius aetas.

VOL. XLVI.

S

THE

"Quid vetat et nosmet Lucili scripta legentes
"Quaerere, num illius, num rerum dura negârit
"Verficulos natura magis factos, et euntes
"Mollius?יי

HOR,

YES;

SATIRE

II.

ES; thank my stars! as early as I knew
This Town, I had the sense to hate it too:

Yet here, as ev'n in Hell, there must be still

One Giant-Vice, so excellently ill,

That all befide, one pities, not abhors;

5

As who knows Sappho, smiles at other whores.

I grant that Poetry 's a crying sin;

It brought (no doubt) th' Excise and Army in: Catch'd like the Plague, or Love, the Lord knows how,

But that the cure is starving, all allow.

10

Yet like the Papist's, is the Poet's state,

Poor and difarm'd, and hardly worth your hate!

Here

S

SATIRE II.

IR; though (I thank God for it) I do hate Perfectly all this town: yet there's one state In all ill things, so excellently beft, That hate towards them, breeds pity towards the rest. Though Poetry, indeed, be fuch a fin, As I think, that brings dearth and Spaniards in: Though like the peftilence and old-fashion'd love, Ridlingly it catch men, and doth remove Never, till it be starv'd out; yet their state Is poor, difarm'd, like Papists, not worth hate.

Here a lean Bard, whose wit could never give
Himself a dinner, makes an Actor live:
The Thief condemn'd, in law already dead,
So prompts, and faves a rogue who cannot read.
Thus as the pipes of some carv'd Organ move,
The gilded puppets dance and mount above.
Heav'd by the breath th' inspiring bellows blow:
Th' inspiring bellows lie and pant below.

15

20

One fings the Fair: but fongs no longer move; No rat is rhym'd to death, nor maid to love: In love's, in nature's spite, the fiege they hold, And scorn the flesh, the devil, and all but gold. These write to Lords, some mean reward to get, 25 As needy beggars sing at doors for meat.

Thofe

One (like a wretch, which at barre judg'd as dead, Yet prompts him which stands next, and cannot read, And saves his life) gives Idiot Actors means (Starving himself) to live by 's labour'd scenes. As in fome Organs Puppits dance above, And bellows pant below, which them do move. One would move love by rhymes; but witchcraft's

charms

Bring not now their old fears, nor their old harms;
Rams and flings now are filly battery,

Pistolets are the best artillery.

And they who write to Lords, rewards to get,
Are they not like fingers at doors for meat?
And they who write, because all write, have still
That 'scuse for writing, and for writing ill.