The mimic yearly gives the same delights; And in the mother's arms the clownish infant frights. Their habits (undistinguished by degree) } Are plain, alike; the same simplicity, } Both on the stage, and in the pit, you see. } In his white cloak the magistrate appears; The country bumpkin the same livery wears. But here attired beyond our purse we go, For useless ornament and flaunting show; We take on trust, in purple robes to shine, And poor, are yet ambitious to be fine. This is a common vice, though all things here Are sold, and sold unconscionably dear. What will you give that Cossus[101] may but view Your face, and in the crowd distinguish you; May take your incense like a gracious God, And answer only with a civil nod? To please our patrons, in this vicious age, We make our entrance by the favourite page; Shave his first down, and when he polls his hair, The consecrated locks to temples bear; Pay tributary cracknels, which he sells, And with our offerings help to raise his vails. Who fears in country-towns a house's fall, Or to be caught betwixt a riven wall? But we inhabit a weak city here, Which buttresses and props but scarcely bear; And 'tis the village-mason's daily calling, To keep the world's metropolis from falling, To cleanse the gutters, and the chinks to close, And, for one night, secure his lord's repose. At Cumæ we can sleep quite round the year, Nor falls, nor fires, nor nightly dangers fear; While rolling flames from Roman turrets fly, And the pale citizens for buckets cry. Thy neighbour has removed his wretched store, Few hands will rid the lumber of the poor; Thy own third story smokes, while thou, supine, Art drenched in fumes of undigested wine. For if the lowest floors already burn, Cock-lofts and garrets soon will take the turn, Where thy tame pigeons next the tiles were bred,[102] Which, in their nests unsafe, are timely fled. Codrus[103] had but one bed, so short to boot, That his short wife's short legs hung dangling out; His cupboard's head six earthen pitchers graced, Beneath them was his trusty tankard placed; And, to support this noble plate, there lay A bending Chiron cast from honest clay; His few Greek books a rotten chest contained, Whose covers much of mouldiness complained; Where mice and rats devoured poetic bread, And with heroic verse luxuriously were fed. 'Tis true, poor Codrus nothing had to boast, And yet poor Codrus all that nothing lost; Begged naked through the streets of wealthy Rome, And found not one to feed, or take him home. But, if the palace of Arturius burn, The nobles change their clothes, the matrons mourn;