A hundred hungry slaves, with their Dutch kitchens, wait. } Huge pans the wretches on their heads must bear, Which scarce gigantic Corbulo[105] could rear; Yet they must walk upright beneath the load, Nay run, and, running, blow the sparkling flames abroad. Their coats, from botching newly brought, are torn. Unwieldy timber-trees, in waggons borne, Stretched at their length, beyond their carriage lie, That nod, and threaten ruin from on high; For, should their axle break, its overthrow } Would crush, and pound to dust, the crowd below; } Nor friends their friends, nor sires their sons could know; } Nor limbs, nor bones, nor carcase, would remain, But a mashed heap, a hotchpotch of the slain; One vast destruction; not the soul alone, But bodies, like the soul, invisible are flown. Meantime, unknowing of their fellow's fate, The servants wash the platter, scower the plate, Then blow the fire, with puffing cheeks, and lay } The rubbers, and the bathing-sheets display, } And oil them first; and each is handy in his way. } But he, for whom this busy care they take, Poor ghost! is wandering by the Stygian lake; Affrighted with the ferryman's grim face, New to the horrors of that uncouth place, His passage begs, with unregarded prayer, And wants two farthings to discharge his fare. Return we to the dangers of the night.-- And, first, behold our houses' dreadful height; From whence come broken potsherds tumbling down, } And leaky ware from garret-windows thrown; } Well may they break our heads, that mark the flinty stone. } 'Tis want of sense to sup abroad too late, Unless thou first hast settled thy estate; As many fates attend thy steps to meet, As there are waking windows in the street. Bless the good Gods, and think thy chance is rare, To have a piss-pot only for thy share. The scouring drunkard, if he does not fight Before his bed-time, takes no rest that night; Passing the tedious hours in greater pain Than stern Achilles, when his friend was slain; 'Tis so ridiculous, but so true withal, A bully cannot sleep without a brawl. Yet, though his youthful blood be fired with wine, He wants not wit the danger to decline; Is cautious to avoid the coach and six, And on the lacquies will no quarrel fix. His train of flambeaux, and embroidered coat, May privilege my lord to walk secure on foot; But me, who must by moon-light homeward bend, Or lighted only with a candle's end, Poor me he fights, if that be fighting, where He only cudgels, and I only bear. He stands, and bids me stand; I must abide, For he's the stronger, and is drunk beside.