That in high Heav'n, unmov'd by care,
The Gods eternal quiet share:

Nor can I deem their spleen the cause,
Why fickle nature breaks her laws.

Brundusium last we reach: and there
Stop short the muse and traveller,

THE NINTH SATIRE

OF THE

FIRST BOOK OF HORACE,

THE DESCRIPTION OF AN IMPERTINENT.

ADAPTED TO THE PRESENT TIMES, 1759.

SAUNT'RING along the street one day,

On trifles musing by the way-
Up steps a free familiar wight.

(I scarcely knew the man by sight.)

"Carlos, (he cried) your hand, my dear; Gad, I rejoice to meet you here!

Pray Heav'n I see you well?" "So, so;

Ev'n well enough as times now go.
The same good wishes, Sir, to you."
Finding he still pursued me close-
"Sir, you have business I suppose."

My business, Sir, is quickly done,

'Tis but to make my merit known,
Sir, I have read"-" O learned Sir,
You and your learning I revere."
Then, sweating with anxiety,

And sadly longing to get free,

Gods, how I scamper'd, scuffled for't,

Ran, halted, ran again, stopp'd short,
Beckon'd my boy, and pull'd him near,
And whisper'd nothing in his ear.

Teiz'd with his loose unjointed chat—

"What street is this? What house is that?"

O Harlow, how I envied thee

Thy unabash'd effrontery,

Who dar'st a foe with freedom blame,

And call a coxcomb by his name!

When I return'd him answer none,
Obligingly the fool ran on,

"I see you're dismally distress'd,
Would give the world to be releas'd,
But, by your leave, Sir, I shall still
Stick to your skirts, do what you will.
Pray which way does your journey tend?”
"O'tis a tedious way, my friend.

Across the Thames, the Lord knows where,

I would not trouble you so far."

"Well, I'm at leisure to attend you."

"Are you? (thought I) the De'il befriend you."
No ass with double panniers rack'd,
Oppress'd, o'erladen, broken-back'd,
E'er look'd a thousandth part so dull
As I, nor half so like a fool.

"Sir, I know little of myself,

(Proceeds the pert conceited elf)

If Gray or Mason you will deem

Than me more worthy your esteem.
Poems I write by folios

As fast as other men write prose;
Then I can sing so loud, so clear,

That Beard cannot with me compare.

In dancing too I all surpass,

Not Cooke can move with such a grace."

Here I made shift with much ado

To interpose a word or two.

"Have you no parents, Sir, no friends, Whose welfare on your own depends?" "Parents, relations, say you? No. They're all dispos'd of long ago."

66

Happy to be no more perplex'd! My fate too threatens, I go next. Dispatch me, Sir, 'tis now too late, Alas! to struggle with my fate!

Well, I'm convinc'd my time is come-
When young, a gipsy told my doom.
The beldame shook her palsied head,
As she perus'd my palm, and said:

Of poison, pestilence, or war,
Gout, stone, defluxion, or catarrh,
You have no reason to beware.

Beware the coxcomb's idle prate;
Chiefly, my son, beware of that.
Be sure, when you behold him, fly
Out of all earshot, or you die."

To Rufus' Hall we now draw near;

Where he was summon'd to appear, Refute the charge the plaintiff brought,

Or suffer judgment by default.

"For Heav'n's sake, if you love me, wait One moment! I'll be with you straight."

Glad of a plausible pretence

"Sir, I must beg you to dispense