If then with what I have I'm fatisfy'd, Grant me this Boon, kind Mercury, befide; Protect me as of old, be gracious yet,

195

And fatten all my Stock, but that of Wit!
When, fick of Town, I leave imperial Rome,
And climb the breezy Heights of Tufculum,
What can my leisure Hours like Satire please?
The chiding Numbers flow with careless Eafe.
For mad Ambition poifons not my Mind;
Nor fhrinks my Body at the grofs South Wind,
Nor do I Autumn's fickly Seafon dread,
When 5 Proferpine makes Profit of the Dead.

6 O gentle Father of the Morning, hear, Or Janus, if that better please thine Ear; From thee the Labours of the bufy Throng Commence, be thou the Prelude of my Song ! First, then, for lucklefs Me thou haft decreed Some Bail to give; Urge, urge,' thou cry'st, thy Speed;

Let none prevent thee in the friendly Deed.'
The Cafe requires it, I must needs obey;
Whether the wintry Sun contracts the Day
In Circlet small, with Snow and Storm fevere,
Or raging Boreas defolates the Year.

This Bail (my Bane) pronounc'd distinct and loud,
I haften back, and, buftling through the Crowd,
Prefs on the tardy; till, provok'd to Spleen,
One cries aloud, 'What does this Madman mean?

"While to Mecenas thus you hafte to pay

"Your Court, you fhove your Betters in theWay.' Thefe Taunts, I own, my Breast with Transport fill:

But when I reach the high 7 Esquilian Hill,
I'm worry'd with an hundred People's Prayers,
Begging my Intereft for their own Affairs.

Rofcius,' fays one, ' defires in Court you'll meet, • To-morrow in the Morning, just at eight.' Another bawls, The Secretaries pray,

༦

On grand Affairs, your Prefence here To-day."
I humbly beg, good Sir, you'd be fo kind
To get this Warrant by Macenas fign'd.'

"I'll try to ferve you,” though I tell the Man; Urgent he answers, If you will, you can.'

Eight rolling Years are nearly at an End, Since first Macenas deign'd to call me Friend; Oft took me in his Chariot; and, in short, Would ask important Questions of this Sort; Pray, what's the Hour? Which in your Choice takes Place,

• 8 The Swordfman Syrus, or the Blade of Thrace? The Mornings now are piercing cold and chill, And on th' Unwary noxious Damps distill.' Such weighty Secrets as the World may hear, And safe are trusted in a leaky Ear.

Yet all the while with thefe high Honours crown'd, Envy beheld my Happiness, and frown'd.

This Son of Fortune,' would the Spiteful fay, Sat lately with Mecenas at the Play,

• And met him in the Field of Mars To-day.' Should fome ftrange Rumour fly about the Street, I'm ftopp'd and ask'd by every one I meet : Pray, good Sir, (for you live among the Great, And can inform us,) are the Dacians beat?' "I have not heard one Tittle, I proteft."

Ah! Sir, you grow fo clofe, and love to jeft.' "Sir, I know nothing, as I hope to live." • Well, Sir, but tell us, Will Augustus give The Farms he promis'd to his martial Bands In the Sicilian or Italian Lands?'

And though I ftill proteft, and vow, and swear, I'm quite a Stranger to the whole Affair, Amaz'd, they think me grown profoundly fly; No Mortal ever was fo clofe as I.

Confum'd in Trifles, thus the golden Day
Not without ardent Wishes fteals away;
10 When fhall I fee my peaceful Country Farm,
My Fancy when with ancient Authors charm?
Or, lull'd to Sleep, the Cares of Life elude
In fweet Oblivion of Sollicitude?

Oh for those Beans which my own Fields provide !
Deem'd by Pythagoras to Man ally'd;
The favoury Pulse ferv'd up in Platters nice,
And Herbs high-relifh'd with the Bacon-Slice!
Oh tranquil Nights in pleafing Converse spent,
Ambrofial Suppers that might Gods content!

K 3

When

When with my chofen Friends (deliciousTreat!) Before the Houfhold Deities we eat;

The Slaves themselves regale on choicest Meat.
Free from 11 mad Laws, we fit reclin'd at Ease,
And drink as much, or little, as we please.

Some quaff large Bumpers that expand the Soul,
And fome grow mellow with a moderate Bowl.
12 We never talk of this Man's Houfe or Vill,
Or whether 13 Lepas dances well or ill;
But of thofe Duties which ourselves we owe,
And which 'tis quite a Scandal not to know:
As whether Wealth or Virtue can impart
The trueft Pleafure to the human Heart :
What thould direct us in our Choice of Friends,
Their own pure Merit, or our private Ends:
14 What we may deem, if rightly understood,
Man's fovereign Blifs, his chief, his only Good.

Mean-time my Friend, old Cervius, never fails
To chear our Converfe with his pithy Tales:
Praife but Arellius, or his ill-got Store,
His Fable thus begins: 15 In Days of yore,
A Country Moufe within his homely Cave
A Treat to one of Note, a Courtier, gave;
A good plain Moufe our Hoft, who lov'd to spare
Thofe Heaps of Forage he had glean'd with Care;
Yet on Occafion would his Soul unbend,
And feaft with Hofpitality his Friend:

He brought wild Oats and Vetches from his Hoard; Dry'd Grapes and Scraps of Bacon grac'd the Board:

In Hopes, no doubt, by such a various Treat,
To tempt the dainty Traveller to eat.
Squat on fresh Chaff, the Mafter of the Feast
Left all the choiceft Viands for his Gueft,
Nor one nice Morfel for himself would spare,
But gnaw'd coarfe Grain, or nibbled at a Tare.
At length their flender Dinner finish'd quite,
Thus to the Rustic spoke the Mouse polite :
How can my Friend a wretched Being drag
• On the bleak Summit of this airy Crag?
Say, do you ftill prefer this barbarous Den
To polish'd Cities? Savages to Men?

• Come, come with Me, nor longer here abide; I'll be your Friend, your Comrade, and your Guide.

16 Since all muft die that draw this vital Breath, Nor great nor fmall can fhun the Shafts of Death; 'Tis ours to fport in Pleasures while we may; For ever mindful of Life's little Day.'

Thefe weighty Reasons fway'd the Country
Mouse,

And light of Heart he fally'd from his Houfe,
Refolv'd to travel with this courtly Spark,
And gain the City when fecurely dark.

17 Now Midnight hover'd o'er this earthly Ball, When our small Gentry reach'd a stately Hall, Where brightly glowing, ftain'd with Tyrian Dye, On Ivory Couches richest Carpets lie;