Horace, Book II, Ode I, Paraphrased; Addressed To Richard Steele, Esq.

Dick, thou'rt resolved, as I am told,     Some strange arcana to unfold,     And with the help of Buckley's[1] pen,     To vamp the good old cause again:     Which thou (such Burnet's shrewd advice is)     Must furbish up, and nickname Crisis.     Thou pompously wilt let us know     What all the world knew long ago,     (E'er since Sir William Gore was mayor,     And Harley fill'd the commons' chair,)     That we a German prince must own,     When Anne for Heaven resigns her throne.     But, more than that, thou'lt keep a rout,     With - who is in - and who is out;     Thou'lt rail devoutly at the peace,     And all its secret causes trace,     The bucket-play 'twixt Whigs and Tories,     Their ups and downs, with fifty stories     Of tricks the Lord of Oxford knows,     And errors of our plenipoes.     Thou'lt tell of leagues among the great,     Portending ruin to our state:     And of that dreadful coup d'clat,     Which has afforded thee much chat.     The queen, forsooth! (despotic,) gave     Twelve coronets without thy leave!     A breach of liberty, 'tis own'd,     For which no heads have yet atoned!     Believe me, what thou'st undertaken     May bring in jeopardy thy bacon;     For madmen, children, wits, and fools,     Should never meddle with edged tools.     But, since thou'st got into the fire,     And canst not easily retire,     Thou must no longer deal in farce,     Nor pump to cobble wicked verse;     Until thou shall have eased thy conscience,     Of spleen, of politics, and nonsense;     And, when thou'st bid adieu to cares,     And settled Europe's grand affairs,     'Twill then, perhaps, be worth thy while     For Drury Lane to shape thy style:     "To make a pair of jolly fellows,     The son and father, join to tell us,     How sons may safely disobey,     And fathers never should say nay;     By which wise conduct they grow friends     At last - and so the story ends."[2]     When first I knew thee, Dick, thou wert     Renown'd for skill in Faustus' art;[3]     Which made thy closet much frequented     By buxom lasses - some repented     Their luckless choice of husbands - others     Impatient to be like their mothers,     Received from thee profound directions     How best to settle their affections.     Thus thou, a friend to the distress'd,     Didst in thy calling do thy best.         But now the senate (if things hit,     And thou at Stockbridge[4] wert not bit)     Must feel thy eloquence and fire,     Approve thy schemes, thy wit admire,     Thee with immortal honours crown,     While, patriot-like, thou'lt strut and frown.         What though by enemies 'tis said,     The laurel, which adorns thy head,     Must one day come in competition,     By virtue of some sly petition:     Yet mum for that; hope still the best,     Nor let such cares disturb thy rest.         Methinks I hear thee loud as trumpet,     As bagpipe shrill or oyster-strumpet;     Methinks I see thee, spruce and fine,     With coat embroider'd richly shine,     And dazzle all the idol faces,     As through the hall thy worship paces;     (Though this I speak but at a venture,     Supposing thou hast tick with Hunter,)     Methinks I see a blackguard rout     Attend thy coach, and hear them shout     In approbation of thy tongue,     Which (in their style) is purely hung.     Now! now you carry all before you!     Nor dares one Jacobite or Tory     Pretend to answer one syl-lable,     Except the matchless hero Abel.[5]     What though her highness and her spouse,     In Antwerp[6] keep a frugal house,     Yet, not forgetful of a friend,     They'll soon enable thee to spend,     If to Macartney[7] thou wilt toast,     And to his pious patron's ghost.     Now, manfully thou'lt run a tilt     "On popes, for all the blood they've spilt,     For massacres, and racks, and flames,     For lands enrich'd by crimson streams,     For inquisitions taught by Spain,     Of which the Christian world complain."     Dick, we agree - all's true thou'st said,     As that my Muse is yet a maid.     But, if I may with freedom talk,     All this is foreign to thy walk:     Thy genius has perhaps a knack     At trudging in a beaten track,     But is for state affairs as fit     As mine for politics and wit.     Then let us both in time grow wise,     Nor higher than our talents rise;     To some snug cellar let's repair,     From duns and debts, and drown our care;     Now quaff of honest ale a quart,     Now venture at a pint of port;     With which inspired, we'll club each night     Some tender sonnet to indite,     And with Tom D'Urfey, Phillips, Dennis,     Immortalize our Dolls and Jennys.