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THE

SECOND SATIRE

OF THE

SECOND BOOK

OF

HORAC E.

SATIRE II.

ΤΟ

Mr. BE THE L.

WHAT, and how great, the virtue and the art

To live on little with a chearful heart;

(A doctrine fage, but truly none of mine)
Let's talk, my friends, but talk before we dine.
Not when a gilt buffet's reflected pride
Turns you from found philosophy afide;
Not when from plate to plate your eye-balls roll,
And the brain dances to the mantling bowl.

Hear Bethel's fermon, one not vers'd in fchools,
But ftrong in fenfe, and wife without the rules.
Go work, hunt, exercife! (he thus began)
Then scorn a homely dinner, if you can.
Your wine lock'd up, your butler ftroll'd abroad,
Or fish deny'd (the river yet unthaw'd)

If then plain bread and milk will do the feat,
The pleafure lies in you, and not the meat.
Preach as I pleafe, I doubt our curious men
Will chufe a pheafant ftill before a hen;
Yet hens of Guinea full as good I hold,
Except you eat the feathers green and gold.
Of carps and mullets why prefer the great,
(Tho' cut in pieces ere my lord can eat)
Yet for fmall turbots fuch efteem profefs?

Because God made these large, the other lefs.
Oldfield with more than harpy throat endu'd,
Cries : « Send me, Gods! a whole hog barbecu'd »!
Oh blast it, fouth-winds! till a stench exhale
Rank as the ripeness of a rabbit's tail.
By what criterion do you eat, d'ye think,
If this is priz'd for sweetness, that for ftink?
When the tir'd glutton labours thro' a treat,
He finds no relish in the sweetest meat,

He calls for fomething bitter, fomething four,
And the rich feaft concludes extremely poor:
Cheap eggs, and herbs, and olives still we see ;
Thus much is left of old fimplicity!

The robin-red-breaft till of late had reft,
And children facred held a martin's neft,
Till becca-ficos fold fo dev'lish dear

To one that was, or would have been, a peer.
Let me extol a cat, on oysters fed,
I'll have a party at the Bedford-head;
Or ev'n to crack live crawfish recommend;
I'd never doubt at court to make a friend.

'Tis yet in vain, I own, to keep a pother
About one vice, and fall into the other :
Between excefs and famine lies a mean;
Plain, but not fordid; tho' not fplendid, clean.
Avidien, or his wife (no matter which,
For him you'll call a dog, and her a bitch)
Sell their prefented partridges, and fruits,
And humbly live on rabbits and on roots:
One half-pint bottle ferves them both to dine
And is at once their vinegar and wine,

But on fome lucky day (as when they found

A loft bank-bill, or heard their fon was drown'd)
At fuch a feaft, old vinegar to spare,

Is what two fouls fo gen'rous cannot bear:
Oil, tho' it stink, they drop by drop impart,
But fowse the cabbage with a bounteous heart.

He knows to live, who keeps the middle state,
And neither leans on this fide, nor on that;
Nor ftops, for one bad cork, his butler's pay,
Swears, like Albutius, a good cook away;
Nor lets, like Nævius, ev'ry error pass,
The mufty wine, foul cloth, or greafy glass.

Now hear what bleffings temperance can bring : (Thus faid our friend, and what he said I fing. ) First health : the stomach ( cramm'd from ev'ry dish, A tomb of boil'd and roaft, and flesh and fish, Where bile, and wind, and phlegm, and acid jar, And all the man is one inteftine war) Remembers oft the school-boy's fimple fare, The temp'rate fleeps, and spirits light as air. How pale, each worshipful and rev'rend guest Rife from a clergy, or a city feast! What life in all that ample body, say? What heav'nly particle inspires the clay? The foul fubfides, and wickedly inclines To feem but mortal, ev'n in found divines.

On morning wings how active springs the mind That leaves the load of yesterday behind!

How eafy ev'ry labour it pursues!

How coming to the poet ev'ry Mufe!

Not but we may exceed, fome holy time,

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