"To Gold yields Silver, and to Virtue Gold, / If Reason's Hand th'impartial Balance hold."
— Duncombe, John (1729-1786) [Editor]
Place of Publication
London
Publisher
Printed for R. and J. Dodsley [etc.]
Date
1757-9
Metaphor
"To Gold yields Silver, and to Virtue Gold, / If Reason's Hand th'impartial Balance hold."
Metaphor in Context
Belov'd Mæcenas, whom my earliest Muse
Chose for her Subject, and my last shall chuse;
No longer youthful Studies can engage
Your Friend, like some old Champion from the Stage
Timely dismiss'd, his Genius damp'd by Age.
Veianius on Alcides' Shrine his Arms
Has hung, and tastes in Solitude the Charms
Of rural Life, lest, as his Powers decay,
Vanquish'd or spent for Pity he should pray.
A secret Voice oft cries, 'The batter'd Horse
'Release in Time, lest flagging in the Course
'With broken Wind he pant.' Now then adieu
To Verse and Trifles; what is Fit and True
Shall be my only Care; my only Thought
To hoard up moral Rules, which may be brought
To Use hereafter. But if you enquire
What Sect I'm of, whose School I most admire,
To no Man's Faith, to no Opinion sworn,
Where'er the Tempest hurries me, I'm borne.
Now through the Sea of Politics I steer,
An active Statesman, rigidly severe,
And strictly virtuous: Now by Stealth return
To Aristippus' Tent, and cautious learn
The subject World to govern, not obey.
Long as to toilsome Rustics is the Day,
Long as the Year to restless Wards, so slow,
To Me the dull and lazy Moments flow,
That check my great Design; which in each Stage
And State of Life concerns us; in Old Age
And Youth, in Riches and in Poverty.
Mean while with these rude Elements I try
To form my Mind and each Defect supply.
Would you to clear your dimmer Sight forbear,
Because to rival Lynceus you despair?
Or hopeless Glycon's Vigour to attain,
In Feet or Hands permit the Gout to reign?
To go thus far is something. Is your Breast
By Dread of Want or Thirst of Wealth possest?
Soft Words may be apply'd, whose Balm can ease
Your Pain, or partly conquer your Disease.
Say, does Ambition fire? Some grave Discourse
Thrice read, will calm and stop the Fever's Force
Though Envy, Passion, Sloth, the Love of Wine,
Or Lust inspire, your Ear if you resign
To wholesome Words, you still may be reclaim'd.
The wildest Beasts by Discipline are tam'd.
Vice to avoid is Virtue; and to fly
Folly, a Step to Wisdom. You apply
Your Mind's and Body's utmost Strength, Disgrace
And Poverty to baffle, which you place
Among the worst of Ills. In Search of Gain,
Through Sands, Rocks, all the Dangers of the Main,
Fearless to farthest India you repair.
And can you think it less deserves your Care,
Your false Opinions to remove; and wait
Instruction's Call at Wisdom's sacred Gate?
What Champion that could win th'Olympic Crown
Would idly wrestle in a Country-Town?
To Gold yields Silver, and to Virtue Gold,
If Reason's Hand th'impartial Balance hold.
'Seek Money first; let Virtue next be sought:'
This is the Lesson in the Forum taught,
And practis'd by the Son and aged Sire.
Should your Estate of what the Laws require
But just fall short, tho' grac'd with Wisdom, Sense,
A blameless Life, and manly Eloquence,
You're a Plebeian still. Yet Children sing
Amid their Sports, 'Do Right, and be a King.'
Be this thy Wall of Brass, No Guilt to know,
Nor let one Crime sit blushing on thy Brow!
Which do you think most worthy of your Praise,
The Roscian Law of these degenerate Days,
Or this trite Song, our great Forefathers' Theme,
Which crowns the virtuous with a Diadem?
Are you more pleas'd with his Advice, who says,
'A large Estate, my Son, with Justice raise,
'If possible; if not, at any Rate
'Be sure, my Son, to raise a large Estate;
''Till towering o'er the Vulgar, in the Pit
'Among the Knights or Senators you sit.'
Or his, who bids you look superior down
On Fortune's Malice, and defy her Frown?
But if the People ask, Why, since I chuse
In the same Walls to sojourn, I refuse
In Judgment to agree, nor disapprove
Or like whatever they dislike or love;
Mine is the Answer that wise Reynard gave
To the sick Lion: 'To your Royal Cave
'I see the Print of Feet, but from it, none:
'Hence, Love of Life your Presence bids me shun.'
A Beast you are of many Heads; the View
Of each far different; which shall I pursue?
Or whither follow? Some the Taxes hire,
Others with Gifts the greedy Widow fire;
For childless Misers some in Ambush lie,
While others thrive by griping Usury.
Thus are they all engag'd a different Way,
And vary in their Notions every Day.
Chose for her Subject, and my last shall chuse;
No longer youthful Studies can engage
Your Friend, like some old Champion from the Stage
Timely dismiss'd, his Genius damp'd by Age.
Veianius on Alcides' Shrine his Arms
Has hung, and tastes in Solitude the Charms
Of rural Life, lest, as his Powers decay,
Vanquish'd or spent for Pity he should pray.
A secret Voice oft cries, 'The batter'd Horse
'Release in Time, lest flagging in the Course
'With broken Wind he pant.' Now then adieu
To Verse and Trifles; what is Fit and True
Shall be my only Care; my only Thought
To hoard up moral Rules, which may be brought
To Use hereafter. But if you enquire
What Sect I'm of, whose School I most admire,
To no Man's Faith, to no Opinion sworn,
Where'er the Tempest hurries me, I'm borne.
Now through the Sea of Politics I steer,
An active Statesman, rigidly severe,
And strictly virtuous: Now by Stealth return
To Aristippus' Tent, and cautious learn
The subject World to govern, not obey.
Long as to toilsome Rustics is the Day,
Long as the Year to restless Wards, so slow,
To Me the dull and lazy Moments flow,
That check my great Design; which in each Stage
And State of Life concerns us; in Old Age
And Youth, in Riches and in Poverty.
Mean while with these rude Elements I try
To form my Mind and each Defect supply.
Would you to clear your dimmer Sight forbear,
Because to rival Lynceus you despair?
Or hopeless Glycon's Vigour to attain,
In Feet or Hands permit the Gout to reign?
To go thus far is something. Is your Breast
By Dread of Want or Thirst of Wealth possest?
Soft Words may be apply'd, whose Balm can ease
Your Pain, or partly conquer your Disease.
Say, does Ambition fire? Some grave Discourse
Thrice read, will calm and stop the Fever's Force
Though Envy, Passion, Sloth, the Love of Wine,
Or Lust inspire, your Ear if you resign
To wholesome Words, you still may be reclaim'd.
The wildest Beasts by Discipline are tam'd.
Vice to avoid is Virtue; and to fly
Folly, a Step to Wisdom. You apply
Your Mind's and Body's utmost Strength, Disgrace
And Poverty to baffle, which you place
Among the worst of Ills. In Search of Gain,
Through Sands, Rocks, all the Dangers of the Main,
Fearless to farthest India you repair.
And can you think it less deserves your Care,
Your false Opinions to remove; and wait
Instruction's Call at Wisdom's sacred Gate?
What Champion that could win th'Olympic Crown
Would idly wrestle in a Country-Town?
To Gold yields Silver, and to Virtue Gold,
If Reason's Hand th'impartial Balance hold.
'Seek Money first; let Virtue next be sought:'
This is the Lesson in the Forum taught,
And practis'd by the Son and aged Sire.
Should your Estate of what the Laws require
But just fall short, tho' grac'd with Wisdom, Sense,
A blameless Life, and manly Eloquence,
You're a Plebeian still. Yet Children sing
Amid their Sports, 'Do Right, and be a King.'
Be this thy Wall of Brass, No Guilt to know,
Nor let one Crime sit blushing on thy Brow!
Which do you think most worthy of your Praise,
The Roscian Law of these degenerate Days,
Or this trite Song, our great Forefathers' Theme,
Which crowns the virtuous with a Diadem?
Are you more pleas'd with his Advice, who says,
'A large Estate, my Son, with Justice raise,
'If possible; if not, at any Rate
'Be sure, my Son, to raise a large Estate;
''Till towering o'er the Vulgar, in the Pit
'Among the Knights or Senators you sit.'
Or his, who bids you look superior down
On Fortune's Malice, and defy her Frown?
But if the People ask, Why, since I chuse
In the same Walls to sojourn, I refuse
In Judgment to agree, nor disapprove
Or like whatever they dislike or love;
Mine is the Answer that wise Reynard gave
To the sick Lion: 'To your Royal Cave
'I see the Print of Feet, but from it, none:
'Hence, Love of Life your Presence bids me shun.'
A Beast you are of many Heads; the View
Of each far different; which shall I pursue?
Or whither follow? Some the Taxes hire,
Others with Gifts the greedy Widow fire;
For childless Misers some in Ambush lie,
While others thrive by griping Usury.
Thus are they all engag'd a different Way,
And vary in their Notions every Day.
Categories
Provenance
Searching in HDIS (Poetry)
Citation
The Works of Horace in English verse. By several Hands. Collected and published by Mr. Duncombe. With notes Historical and Critical, 2 vols. (London: R. and J. Dodsley, 1757). <Link to ECCO>
Date of Entry
12/11/2006
