A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace With the Original Text, and Critical Notes collected from his best Latin and French Commentators. By the Revd Mr. Philip Francis...The third edition |
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 | A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace |  |
47
Sat. IV.
[The comic Poets, in its earliest Age]
The comic Poets, in its earliest Age
Who form'd the Manners of the Grecian Stage,
Was there a Villain, who might justly claim
A better Right of being damn'd to Fame,
Rake, Cut-throat, Thief, whatever was his Crime,
They boldly stigmatiz'd the Wretch in Rhime.
Who form'd the Manners of the Grecian Stage,
Was there a Villain, who might justly claim
A better Right of being damn'd to Fame,
Rake, Cut-throat, Thief, whatever was his Crime,
They boldly stigmatiz'd the Wretch in Rhime.
From their Example whole Lucilius rose,
Though different Measures, different Verse he chose.
He railled with a gay and easy Air,
But rude his Numbers, and his Style severe.
He weakly fancied it a glorious Feat
His hundred Lines extempore to repeat,
And as his Verses like a Torrent roll,
The Stream is muddy, and his Waters foul.
He prattled Rhimes; but lazy and unfit
For writing well; for much, I own, he writ.
Though different Measures, different Verse he chose.
He railled with a gay and easy Air,
But rude his Numbers, and his Style severe.
He weakly fancied it a glorious Feat
His hundred Lines extempore to repeat,
And as his Verses like a Torrent roll,
The Stream is muddy, and his Waters foul.
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For writing well; for much, I own, he writ.
Crispinus thus my Littleness defies;
Here make the smallest Bett, the Boaster cries.
Crispinus.
Here make the smallest Bett, the Boaster cries.
“Pen, Ink, and Paper—name your Place and Time:
“Then try, Friend Flaccus, who can fastest rhime.”
Horace.
Thank Heaven, that form'd me of an humbler Kind;
No Wit, nor yet to pratling much inclin'd:
While thou shalt imitate the Winds, that blow
From Lungs of Leather, 'till the Metal flow.
No Wit, nor yet to pratling much inclin'd:
While thou shalt imitate the Winds, that blow
From Lungs of Leather, 'till the Metal flow.
Thrice happy Fannius, of his own free Grace,
Who in Apollo's Temple hangs his Face,
And gilds his Works to view; while I with Fear
Repeat my Verses to the public Ear;
Because by few such Works as mine are read,
Conscious of meriting the Lash they dread.
Who in Apollo's Temple hangs his Face,
And gilds his Works to view; while I with Fear
Repeat my Verses to the public Ear;
Because by few such Works as mine are read,
Conscious of meriting the Lash they dread.
Take me a Man at venture from the Croud,
And he's ambitious, covetous, or proud.
One burns to Madness for the wedded Dame;
Unnatural Lusts another's Breast inflame.
O'er Gold's fair Lustre, one with Rapture sighs;
For bronze Antiques the stupid Albius dies.
The venturous Merchant, from the rising Day
To Regions warm'd beneath the setting Ray,
Like Dust, collected by a Whirlwind, flies
To save his Pelf, or bid the Mass arise.
All these dread Poets, and their Rhimes detest—
“Yonder he drives—avoid that furious Beast;
“If he may have his Jest, he never cares
“At whose Expence; nor Friend, nor Patron spares;
“And if he once th' ill-natur'd Paper stain,
“He joys to hear the Croud repeat the Strain.”
And he's ambitious, covetous, or proud.
One burns to Madness for the wedded Dame;
Unnatural Lusts another's Breast inflame.
O'er Gold's fair Lustre, one with Rapture sighs;
For bronze Antiques the stupid Albius dies.
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To Regions warm'd beneath the setting Ray,
Like Dust, collected by a Whirlwind, flies
To save his Pelf, or bid the Mass arise.
All these dread Poets, and their Rhimes detest—
“Yonder he drives—avoid that furious Beast;
“If he may have his Jest, he never cares
“At whose Expence; nor Friend, nor Patron spares;
“And if he once th' ill-natur'd Paper stain,
“He joys to hear the Croud repeat the Strain.”
Now hear this short Defence. For my own Part,
I claim no Portion of the Poet's Art.
'Tis not enough to close the flowing Line,
And in ten Syllables your Sense confine,
Or write in meer prosaic Rhimes like me,
That can deserve the Name of Poetry.
I claim no Portion of the Poet's Art.
'Tis not enough to close the flowing Line,
And in ten Syllables your Sense confine,
Or write in meer prosaic Rhimes like me,
That can deserve the Name of Poetry.
Is there a Man, whom real Genius fires,
Whom the diviner Soul of Verse inspires;
Who talks true Greatness; let him boldly claim
The sacred Honours of a Poet's Name.
Whom the diviner Soul of Verse inspires;
Who talks true Greatness; let him boldly claim
The sacred Honours of a Poet's Name.
Some doubt, if Comedy be justly thought
A real Poem, since it may be wrought
In Style and Subject without Fire or Force,
And, bate the Numbers, is but meer Discourse.
For though we see the Father high enrag'd,
By a kept Mistress when his Son's engag'd,
Nor takes the portion'd Maid, but deep in Drink
Reels in fair Day-light (shameful) with his Link;
Yet could Pomponius from his Father hear,
Were he alive, a Lecture less severe?
A real Poem, since it may be wrought
In Style and Subject without Fire or Force,
And, bate the Numbers, is but meer Discourse.
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By a kept Mistress when his Son's engag'd,
Nor takes the portion'd Maid, but deep in Drink
Reels in fair Day-light (shameful) with his Link;
Yet could Pomponius from his Father hear,
Were he alive, a Lecture less severe?
'Tis not enough your Language to refine,
When, if you break the Measures of the Line,
In common Life an angry Father's Rage
Is but the same with Demea's on the Stage.
When, if you break the Measures of the Line,
In common Life an angry Father's Rage
Is but the same with Demea's on the Stage.
Take from Lucilius' Writings, or from mine,
The Cadences, and Measures of the Line,
Then change their Order, and the Words transpose,
No more the scatter'd Poet's Limbs it shows;
Not so—When hideous Discord bursts the Bars,
And iron Gates, to pour forth all her Wars.
The Cadences, and Measures of the Line,
Then change their Order, and the Words transpose,
No more the scatter'd Poet's Limbs it shows;
Not so—When hideous Discord bursts the Bars,
And iron Gates, to pour forth all her Wars.
Of this enough; hereafter we shall show,
Whether 'tis real Poetry, or no.
Let me now ask, if Satire should appear,
With Reason, such an Object of your Fear.
Sulcius, and Caprius, fiercest of their Trade,
Hoarse with the Virulence, with which they plead,
When through the Secrets they stalk with Libels arm'd;
Mark! how the Thieves, and Robbers are alarm'd;
But yet the Man of honest Hands and pure
May scorn them both, in Innocence secure:
Or though like Cælius you a Villain be,
I'm no Informer. Whence your Fears of me?
With Shops, and Stationers I never deal;
No rubric Pillar sets my Works to sale,
O'er which the Hands of vulgar Readers sweat,
Or whose soft Strains Tigellius can repeat.
Even by my Friends compel'd I read my Lays,
Nor every Place, nor every Audience please.
Whether 'tis real Poetry, or no.
Let me now ask, if Satire should appear,
With Reason, such an Object of your Fear.
Sulcius, and Caprius, fiercest of their Trade,
Hoarse with the Virulence, with which they plead,
When through the Secrets they stalk with Libels arm'd;
Mark! how the Thieves, and Robbers are alarm'd;
But yet the Man of honest Hands and pure
May scorn them both, in Innocence secure:
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I'm no Informer. Whence your Fears of me?
With Shops, and Stationers I never deal;
No rubric Pillar sets my Works to sale,
O'er which the Hands of vulgar Readers sweat,
Or whose soft Strains Tigellius can repeat.
Even by my Friends compel'd I read my Lays,
Nor every Place, nor every Audience please.
Full many Bards the public Forum chuse
Where to recite the Labours of their Muse;
Or vaulted Baths, that best preserve the Sound,
While sweetly floats the Voice in Echoes round.
The Coxcombs never think at whose Expence
They thus indulge the dear Impertinence.
“But you in Libels, mischievous, delight,
“And never, but in Spleen of Genius, write.”
Is there, with whom I live, who know my Heart,
Who taught you how to aim this venom'd Dart?
Where to recite the Labours of their Muse;
Or vaulted Baths, that best preserve the Sound,
While sweetly floats the Voice in Echoes round.
The Coxcombs never think at whose Expence
They thus indulge the dear Impertinence.
“But you in Libels, mischievous, delight,
“And never, but in Spleen of Genius, write.”
Is there, with whom I live, who know my Heart,
Who taught you how to aim this venom'd Dart?
He, who malignant tears an absent Friend,
Or, when attack'd by others, don't defend;
Who trivial Bursts of Laughter strives to raise,
And courts of prating Petulance the Praise;
Of Things he never saw who tells his Tale,
And Friendship's Secrets knows not to conceal,
This Man is vile; here, Roman, fix your Mark;
His Soul is black, as his Complexion's dark.
Or, when attack'd by others, don't defend;
Who trivial Bursts of Laughter strives to raise,
And courts of prating Petulance the Praise;
Of Things he never saw who tells his Tale,
And Friendship's Secrets knows not to conceal,
This Man is vile; here, Roman, fix your Mark;
His Soul is black, as his Complexion's dark.
We often see, among a Croud of Guests,
Who scatters round his cold, insipid Jests,
And only spares his Host, until the Bowl
With honest Freedom opes his inmost Soul;
Yet, though a cruel Joker you detest,
He seems a courteous, well-bred, easy Guest.
But if in idle Raillery I said,
Rufillus with Perfumes distracts my Head,
While foul Gargonius breathes a ranker Air,
You think me most envenom'd and severe.
Who scatters round his cold, insipid Jests,
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With honest Freedom opes his inmost Soul;
Yet, though a cruel Joker you detest,
He seems a courteous, well-bred, easy Guest.
But if in idle Raillery I said,
Rufillus with Perfumes distracts my Head,
While foul Gargonius breathes a ranker Air,
You think me most envenom'd and severe.
If we, by Chance, that Thief Petillius name,
You, as your Custom is, defend his Fame.
“Petillius is my Friend; from early Youth
“Chearful we liv'd together, and in truth
“I have been much indebted to his Power,
“And I rejoice to find his Danger o'er.
“But, in the Name of Wonder be it said,
“At that same Trial how he sav'd his Head.”—
Such Rancour this, of such a poisonous Vein,
As never, never, shall my Paper stain:
Much less infect my Heart, if I may dare
For my own Heart, in any thing, to swear.
You, as your Custom is, defend his Fame.
“Petillius is my Friend; from early Youth
“Chearful we liv'd together, and in truth
“I have been much indebted to his Power,
“And I rejoice to find his Danger o'er.
“But, in the Name of Wonder be it said,
“At that same Trial how he sav'd his Head.”—
Such Rancour this, of such a poisonous Vein,
As never, never, shall my Paper stain:
Much less infect my Heart, if I may dare
For my own Heart, in any thing, to swear.
Yet some Indulgence I may justly claim,
If too familiar with another's Fame.
This from a Father's fond Indulgence flows,
Who mark'd the Folly, as to Life it rose
In strong Examples. If he bad me live
Content with what his Industry could give,
Or leave me at his Death: “Behold, my Son,
“Young Albius there, how wretchedly undone!
“Yet no mean Lesson is the Spendthrift's Fate
“To caution Youth from squandering their Estate.”
To fright me from the Harlot's vagrant Bed,
“Behold Scetanius, and his Ruin dread;”
That I might ne'er pursue the wedded Dame,
“An honest Venus will indulge your Flame.
“My Son, by poor Trebonius be advis'd;
“Sure 'tis no pleasant Tale to be surpris'd.”
If too familiar with another's Fame.
This from a Father's fond Indulgence flows,
Who mark'd the Folly, as to Life it rose
In strong Examples. If he bad me live
Content with what his Industry could give,
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“Young Albius there, how wretchedly undone!
“Yet no mean Lesson is the Spendthrift's Fate
“To caution Youth from squandering their Estate.”
To fright me from the Harlot's vagrant Bed,
“Behold Scetanius, and his Ruin dread;”
That I might ne'er pursue the wedded Dame,
“An honest Venus will indulge your Flame.
“My Son, by poor Trebonius be advis'd;
“Sure 'tis no pleasant Tale to be surpris'd.”
“'Twixt right and wrong the Learned may decide,
“With wise Distinctions may your Conduct guide;
“Be mine the common Wisdom, that inspires
“The frugal Manners of our ancient Sires,
“And, while your Youth may yet a Tutor claim,
“To guard your Virtue, and preserve your Fame.
“But soon as Time confirms, with stronger Tone,
“Your Strength and Mind, your Conduct be your own.”
“With wise Distinctions may your Conduct guide;
“Be mine the common Wisdom, that inspires
“The frugal Manners of our ancient Sires,
“And, while your Youth may yet a Tutor claim,
“To guard your Virtue, and preserve your Fame.
“But soon as Time confirms, with stronger Tone,
“Your Strength and Mind, your Conduct be your own.”
Thus did he form my Youth with lenient Hand;
When he for Virtue urg'd the soft Command,
Pointing some awful Senator to view,
“His grave Example constantly pursue.”
Would he dissuade me? “Can you doubt, he cries,
“That equal Ruin and Dishonour rise
“From such an Action, when that Scoundrel's Name
“Is branded with the flagrant Marks of Shame?”
For, as when neighbouring Funerals affright
The Patient, who indulg'd his Appetite
And bid him spare himself, we often find,
Another's Shame alarms a tender Mind.
When he for Virtue urg'd the soft Command,
Pointing some awful Senator to view,
“His grave Example constantly pursue.”
Would he dissuade me? “Can you doubt, he cries,
“That equal Ruin and Dishonour rise
“From such an Action, when that Scoundrel's Name
“Is branded with the flagrant Marks of Shame?”
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The Patient, who indulg'd his Appetite
And bid him spare himself, we often find,
Another's Shame alarms a tender Mind.
Thus, pure from more pernicious Crimes I live:
Some venial Frailties you may well forgive,
For such I own I have; and yet even these,
A Length of Time, although by slow Degrees,
A Friend sincere, who can with Candour love,
Or my own Reason, shall perhaps remove;
For in my Bed, or in the Collonade
Sauntering, I call Reflexion to my Aid.
“This was well done. Here Happiness attends.
“This Conduct makes me pleasing to my Friends.
“Were that Man's Actions of a beauteous Kind?
“Oh! may I never be to such inclin'd.”
Some venial Frailties you may well forgive,
For such I own I have; and yet even these,
A Length of Time, although by slow Degrees,
A Friend sincere, who can with Candour love,
Or my own Reason, shall perhaps remove;
For in my Bed, or in the Collonade
Sauntering, I call Reflexion to my Aid.
“This was well done. Here Happiness attends.
“This Conduct makes me pleasing to my Friends.
“Were that Man's Actions of a beauteous Kind?
“Oh! may I never be to such inclin'd.”
Thus, silently I talk my Conduct o'er,
Or trifle with the Muse an idle Hour;
For which, among my Frailties, I demand
Forgiveness, and shall call a powerful Band,
If you refuse, of Poets to my Aid
(Well fraught with Numbers is the rhiming Trade)
To force you, like the proselyting Jews,
To be, like us, a Brother of the Muse.
Or trifle with the Muse an idle Hour;
For which, among my Frailties, I demand
Forgiveness, and shall call a powerful Band,
If you refuse, of Poets to my Aid
(Well fraught with Numbers is the rhiming Trade)
To force you, like the proselyting Jews,
To be, like us, a Brother of the Muse.
| A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace | |