[Page 117]

One of Lucian's Dialogues of the Dead Paraphras'd.

Diogenes.
1 O Pollux, when thou next revisit'st Light,
2 Menippus to these nether Realms invite;
3 Tell him, if he's not tir'd with Fools above,
4 Where all that's said, and done, his Mirth does move,
5 He'll here fit Subjects for his Laughter find,
6 New Scenes of Madness to divert his Mind:
7 For tho' blind Mortals no Ideas have
8 Of any thing beyond the silent Grave,
9 But vainly fancy, as their Toil and Care,
10 So too their Souls find equal Periods there,
11 And all the dislodg'd Atoms mingle with the Air.
12 Yet here are no such impious Scepticks found,
13 Each Place does with complaining Ghosts abound:
14 He sure with me would full of Wonder gaze
15 On mighty Men whose glorious Acts amaze,
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16 Who conquer'd Kingdoms, and who Thrones did grace,
17 And left their Sceptres to their God-like Race,
18 Here, undistinguish'd from the meanest Shade,
19 Depriv'd of Grandeur, and by none obey'd:
20 They by no other Marks can now be known,
21 But Sighs, and Groans, and sad Complaints alone:
22 But bid him with him some Provisions bring,
23 A Crust were here a Present for a King:
24 He'll here find nothing Nature to sustain,
25 Throughout the vast Extent of this dark empty Plain.
Pollux.
26 I'll readily perform what you desire;
27 But tell me where I shall for him inquire;
28 Describe his Person, Humor, and Attire.
Diogenes.
29 He's old and jolly, and to Bacchus kind,
30 To Fools averse, to Satire still inclin'd:
31 A Cloak he wears the poorest Wretch wou'd scorn,
32 And which Ten thousand Patches wretchedly adorn:
33 At Athens, or at Corinth him you'll find,
34 Lampooning the whole Race of Human Kind:
35 He strikes at all, both th' Ugly and the Fair,
36 Nor Young, nor Old, nor yet the Great does spare,
37 But on Philosophers is most severe:
38 Their vain Pretences, and their towring Flights,
39 Their mystick Terms, and all those little Slights,
40 By which they strive their Ignorance to hide,
41 Those Cobweb Cov'rings for their nauseous Pride,
42 Are still the Subjects which his Laughter move
43 The chief Diversion that he finds above.
Pollux.
44 By this Description he'll with ease be known:
45 But is your Message sent to him alone?
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46 Can you not think of something that is fit
47 To be deliver'd to those Men of Wit,
48 Those high Pretenders to gigantick Sense,
49 To boundless Knowledge, matchless Eloquence?
Diogenes.
50 Bid them lay all their vain Disputes aside,
51 No longer Truth from their Disciples hide:
52 No more thro' Nature's puzling Labyrinths stray,
53 No more of her mysterious Motions say:
54 No more with an affected haughty Air,
55 Their Thoughts of Things beyond their reach declare,
56 Things far remote from the most piercing Sight,
57 Beyond the Ken of intellectual Light.
Pollux.
58 Such a Discourse as this wou'd not be born,
59 'Twou'd both expose me to their Hate, and Scorn:
60 They'll gravely tell me, I my Ign'rance show,
61 And rail at what I want the Sense to know.
Diogenes.
62 Tell them from me th' important Message came;
63 'Tis I their Pride and Ignorance proclaim:
64 I bid them with Remorse past Follies view,
65 And their Repentance by their Blushes shew.
Pollux.
66 I with exactest Care your Order will obey,
67 Without being mov'd at what the noisie Boasters say.
Diogenes.
68 When this is done, then to the Great repair,
69 And speak to them with a commanding Air:
70 Say, What ye mad Men, makes you thus in vain,
71 To heap up Honours, and increase your Train,
72 As if you here for ever shou'd remain?
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73 Riches and Grandeur do but load the Mind,
74 And they are Trifles you must leave behind:
75 Naked and poor, you to the Shades must go,
76 Only Despair will stay with you below:
77 The more you've now, the more you will lament,
78 When you from all your Pomp, and all your Joys are sent.
79 Next to th' Effeminate Megilbus go,
80 And let the brawny Damoxenus know
81 That none below are handsom, strong, or brave;
82 All are meer Phantoms when they're past the Grave:
83 None here their Youth and boasted Charms retain,
84 None here the fam'd Olympick Prizes gain:
85 No killing Eyes bewitching Glances dart,
86 No flowing Tresses win an amorous Heart:
87 No blushing Cheeks, not one inticing Smile,
88 Can here be seen th' unwary to beguile:
89 Nothing is lovely, nothing pleasing here,
90 Nothing but Dust and Ashes does appear.
Pollux.
91 This I with Speed, and with Delight will do,
92 Since 'tis a Message worthy me, and you.
Diogenes.
93 Inform the Poor, of whom vast Crouds you'll see,
94 That here they'll find a just Equality;
95 Tell 'em, they'll here unhappy Partners find,
96 Afflictions are not to one State confin'd:
97 Millions of Suff'rers throng the Stygian Shore,
98 And there for ever will their Fate deplore,
99 Then bid them to complain and weep no more;
100 Since none will here their former Pomp retain,
101 But on a humble Level all remain:
102 None here will richer, greater, happier live,
103 No flatt'ring Titles to each other give:
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104 No Room is left for Av'rice, or for Pride,
105 Where Poverty and Death, and dreadful Night reside.
106 And then from me, degen'rate Sparta blame,
107 Tell them they've tarnish'd their once glorious Fame;
108 They now no longer breath that Martial Heat,
109 Which made them once so formidably Great.
Pollux.
110 Such Words as these, Diogenes, forbear,
111 I can't with Patience such Reproaches hear:
112 My Country's Honour, as my own, I prize,
113 And cou'd for it my Share of Life despise.
114 All your Commands, but this, without Delay
115 I'll e'er to morrow Night with Care obey.
Diogenes.
116 'Tis kindly said; I will no more desire:
117 May Hermes his persuasive Skill inspire,
118 And may your Voice be sweet as th' Orphean Lyre.
119 That list'ning Mortals, by your Precepts taught,
120 May to the Knowledge of their Faults be brought,
121 Reclaim'd from Ill, and made themselves to know:
122 A Lesson they too late will learn below!

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Title (in Source Edition): One of Lucian's Dialogues of the Dead Paraphras'd.
Author: Lady Mary Chudleigh
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Chudleigh, Mary Lee, 1656-1710. Poems on several occasions. Together with the Song of the three children paraphras'd. By the Lady Chudleigh. London: Printed by W.B. for Bernard Lintott at the Middle Temple Gate in Fleetstreet, 1703, pp. 117-121. [16],125,[17],73,[1]p.; 8⁰. (ESTC T97275) (Page images digitized from a copy in the Bodleian Library [(OC) 280 j.452].)

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