The works of Horace, translated into verse With a prose interpretation, for the help of students. And occasional notes. By Christopher Smart ... In four volumes |
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| VII. | SATIRE VII.
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 | The works of Horace, translated into verse |  |
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SATIRE VII.
[How Persius, ev'n that mongrel thing]
He describes a squabble between Rupilius, sirnamed King, with one Persius, a Grecian of mean account.
Aveng'd himself against one King,
Who by Octavius was proscrib'd,
He had such spite and gall imbib'd,
I make no doubt but long ago,
All Barbers and their patients know.
This Persius was compell'd to be
On business at Clazomenae,
Because his bulk of wealth was there,
With King too a perplex'd affair.
This man was harsh, and of such hate,
That even King's was not so great,
Full of all confidence and vain,
And still in such abusive strain,
That he cou'd distance and out do,
The Barri and Sisennæ too.
But now return we to this King,
When they cou'd to no issue bring
Their contest, (for when war breaks out,
Its longer, as the men are stout;
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And spirited Achilles run,
That their intolerable rage,
Cou'd nought but death itself assuage.
And this too was the very cause,
Since each deserv'd so great applause;
And if there shou'd begin a fight
'Twixt heroes of unequal might,
The worst by presents must recede,
As Glaucus did by Diomede)
When Brutus was the prætor chose
Of Asia, these intrepid foes
Like Bacchius with Bithus match'd,
Hasted to have th'affair dispatch'd,
With vehemence they both proceed,
And were a curious sight indeed:
Persius the first the case expounds,
Till laughter from all sides rebounds;
He praises Brutus and his band,
“The sun of Asia for command,”
And all that follow'd him to fight,
He calls his satellites of light,
Except this King, who all things mars,
Curs'd as the Dog amongst the stars.
Made of precipitance and mud,
He rush'd on like a wintry flood;
The King then on his running on,
Wou'd have attack'd him pro and con,
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Of clowns, who're sent the vines to dress,
For all the passengers gave out,
When he cried cuckold, thief, or lout—
But this same Grecian dipt in gall,
From Italy began to bawl—
“By all th'immortal Gods, O Brute,
“To thee I make my fervent suit,
“Thou that are wont all kings to kill,
“Use this King also as you will,
“For take my word, it is the task
“Of him that bears both ax and mask.”
| The works of Horace, translated into verse | |