The city-prætor will no pleadings hear; } The very name of fire we hate and fear, } And look aghast, as if the Gauls were here. } While yet it burns, the officious nation flies, Some to condole, and some to bring supplies. One sends him marble to rebuild, and one White naked statues of the Parian stone, The work of Polyclete, that seem to live; While others images for altars give; One books and skreens, and Pallas to the breast; Another bags of gold, and he gives best. Childless Arturius, vastly rich before, Thus, by his losses, multiplies his store; Suspected for accomplice to the fire, That burnt his palace but to build it higher. But, could you be content to bid adieu To the dear playhouse, and the players too, Sweet country-seats are purchased every where, } With lands and gardens, at less price than here } You hire a darksome dog-hole by the year. } A small convenience decently prepared, A shallow well, that rises in your yard, That spreads his easy crystal streams around, And waters all the pretty spot of ground. There, love the fork, thy garden cultivate, And give thy frugal friends a Pythagorean treat;[104] 'Tis somewhat to be lord of some small ground, In which a lizard may, at least, turn round. 'Tis frequent here, for want of sleep, to die, } Which fumes of undigested feasts deny, } And, with imperfect heat, in languid stomachs fry. } What house secure from noise the poor can keep, When even the rich can scarce afford to sleep? So dear it costs to purchase rest in Rome, And hence the sources of diseases come. The drover, who his fellow-drover meets In narrow passages of winding streets; The waggoners, that curse their standing teams, Would wake even drowsy Drusus from his dreams. And yet the wealthy will not brook delay, But sweep above our heads, and make their way, In lofty litters borne, and read and write, Or sleep at ease, the shutters make it night; Yet still he reaches first the public place. The press before him stops the client's pace; The crowd that follows crush his panting sides, And trip his heels; he walks not, but he rides. One elbows him, one jostles in the shole, A rafter breaks his head, or chairman's pole; Stocking'd with loads of fat town-dirt he goes, } And some rogue-soldier, with his hob-nailed shoes, } Indents his legs behind in bloody rows. } See, with what smoke our doles we celebrate: } A hundred guests, invited, walk in state; }