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 |
 | I. |
 | II. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| I. |
| II. |
 | A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace |  |
217
Sat. VI.
[I often wish'd, I had a Farm]
I often wish'd, I had a Farm,
A decent Dwelling, snug and warm,
A Garden, and a Spring as pure
As Crystal, running by my Door,
Besides a little ancient Grove,
Where at my Leisure I might rove.
A decent Dwelling, snug and warm,
A Garden, and a Spring as pure
As Crystal, running by my Door,
Besides a little ancient Grove,
Where at my Leisure I might rove.
The gracious Gods, to crown my Bliss,
Have granted this, and more than this,
I have enough in my possessing,
'Tis well: I ask no greater Blessing,
O Hermes! than remote from Strife
To have and hold them for my Life.
Have granted this, and more than this,
I have enough in my possessing,
'Tis well: I ask no greater Blessing,
O Hermes! than remote from Strife
To have and hold them for my Life.
If I was never known to raise
My Fortune by dishonest Ways,
Nor, like the Spend-thrifts of the Times,
Shall ever sink it by my Crimes:
If thus I neither pray, nor ponder—
Oh! might I have that Angle yonder,
Which disproportions now my Field,
What Satisfaction it would yield?
Oh! that some lucky Chance but threw
A Pot of Silver in my View,
As lately to the Man, who bought
The very Land, in which he wrought!
If I am pleas'd with my Condition,
O! hear, and grant this last Petition:
Indulgent let my Cattle batten,
Let all Things, but my Fancy, fatten,
And thou continue still to guard,
As thou art wont, thy suppliant Bard.
My Fortune by dishonest Ways,
Nor, like the Spend-thrifts of the Times,
Shall ever sink it by my Crimes:
If thus I neither pray, nor ponder—
Oh! might I have that Angle yonder,
Which disproportions now my Field,
What Satisfaction it would yield?
Oh! that some lucky Chance but threw
A Pot of Silver in my View,
As lately to the Man, who bought
The very Land, in which he wrought!
If I am pleas'd with my Condition,
O! hear, and grant this last Petition:
219
Let all Things, but my Fancy, fatten,
And thou continue still to guard,
As thou art wont, thy suppliant Bard.
Whenever therefore I retreat
From Rome into my Sabine Seat,
By Mountains fenc'd on either Side,
And in my Castle fortify'd,
What should I write with greater Pleasure,
Than Satires in familiar Measure?
Nor mad Ambition there destroys,
Nor sickly Wind my Health annoys;
Nor noxious Autumn gives me Pain,
The ruthless Undertaker's Gain.
From Rome into my Sabine Seat,
By Mountains fenc'd on either Side,
And in my Castle fortify'd,
What should I write with greater Pleasure,
Than Satires in familiar Measure?
Nor mad Ambition there destroys,
Nor sickly Wind my Health annoys;
Nor noxious Autumn gives me Pain,
The ruthless Undertaker's Gain.
Whatever Title please thine Ear,
Father of Morning, Janus hear,
Since mortal Men, by Heaven's Decree,
Commence their Toils, imploring thee,
Director of the busy Throng,
Be thou the Prelude of my Song.
Father of Morning, Janus hear,
Since mortal Men, by Heaven's Decree,
Commence their Toils, imploring thee,
Director of the busy Throng,
Be thou the Prelude of my Song.
At Rome, you press me: “Without fail
“A Friend expects you for his Bail,
“Be nimble to perform your Part,
“Lest any Rival get the Start.
“Though rapid Boreas sweep the Ground,
“Or Winter in a narrower Round
“Contract the Day, through Storm and Snow,
“At all Adventures, you must go.”
“A Friend expects you for his Bail,
“Be nimble to perform your Part,
“Lest any Rival get the Start.
“Though rapid Boreas sweep the Ground,
“Or Winter in a narrower Round
“Contract the Day, through Storm and Snow,
“At all Adventures, you must go.”
When bound beyond Equivocation,
Or any mental Reservation,
By all the Tyes of legal Traps,
And to my Ruin too, perhaps,
I still must bustle through the Croud,
And press the tardy; when aloud
Some wicked Fellow reimburses
This Usage with a Peal of Curses.
“What Madness hath possess'd thy Pate
“To justle People at this Rate,
“When puffing through the Streets you scour
“To meet Mæcenas at an Hour?”
Or any mental Reservation,
By all the Tyes of legal Traps,
And to my Ruin too, perhaps,
I still must bustle through the Croud,
And press the tardy; when aloud
221
This Usage with a Peal of Curses.
“What Madness hath possess'd thy Pate
“To justle People at this Rate,
“When puffing through the Streets you scour
“To meet Mæcenas at an Hour?”
This pleases me, to tell the Truth,
And is as Honey to my Tooth.
But when I breathe Esquilian Air,
I find as little Quiet there;
An hundred Men's Affairs confound
My Senses, and besiege me round.
“Roscius entreated you too meet
“At Court To-morrow before eight—
“The Secretarie have implor'd
“Your Presence at their Council-board—
“Pray, take this Patent, and prevail
“Upon your Friend to fix the Seal—”
Sir, I shall try—Replies the Man,
And urges: “If you please, you can—”
And is as Honey to my Tooth.
But when I breathe Esquilian Air,
I find as little Quiet there;
An hundred Men's Affairs confound
My Senses, and besiege me round.
“Roscius entreated you too meet
“At Court To-morrow before eight—
“The Secretarie have implor'd
“Your Presence at their Council-board—
“Pray, take this Patent, and prevail
“Upon your Friend to fix the Seal—”
Sir, I shall try—Replies the Man,
And urges: “If you please, you can—”
'Tis more than seven Years complete,
It hardly wants a Month of eight,
Since good Mæcenas, fond of Sport,
Receiv'd me first in friendly Sort,
Whom he might carry in his Chair,
A Mile or two, to take the Air,
And might entrust with idle Chat,
Discoursing upon this or that,
As in a free familiar Way,
“How, tell me, Horace, goes the Day?
“And can that Thracian Wight engage
“The Syrian Hector of the Stage?
“The Morning Air is very bad
“For them, who go but thinly clad”—
It hardly wants a Month of eight,
Since good Mæcenas, fond of Sport,
Receiv'd me first in friendly Sort,
Whom he might carry in his Chair,
A Mile or two, to take the Air,
And might entrust with idle Chat,
Discoursing upon this or that,
As in a free familiar Way,
“How, tell me, Horace, goes the Day?
“And can that Thracian Wight engage
“The Syrian Hector of the Stage?
223
“For them, who go but thinly clad”—
Our Conversation chiefly dwells
On these, and such like Bagatelles,
As might, without incurring Fears,
Be well repos'd in leaky Ears.
On these, and such like Bagatelles,
As might, without incurring Fears,
Be well repos'd in leaky Ears.
But since this Freedom first began,
And I was thought a lucky Man,
The more each Day, the more each Hour
I find myself in Envy's Power.
“Our Son of Fortune (with a Pox)
“Sate with Mæcenas in the Box,
“Just by the Stage: You might remark,
“They play'd together in the Park.”
And I was thought a lucky Man,
The more each Day, the more each Hour
I find myself in Envy's Power.
“Our Son of Fortune (with a Pox)
“Sate with Mæcenas in the Box,
“Just by the Stage: You might remark,
“They play'd together in the Park.”
Sould any Rumour, without Head
Or Tail, about the Streets be spread,
Whoever meets me gravely nods,
And says, “As you approach the Gods,
“It is no Mystery to you,
“What do the Dacians mean to do?”
Indeed I know not—“How you joke,
“And love to sneer at simple Folk!”
But Vengeance seize this Head of mine,
If I have heard or can divine—
“Then, prithee, where are Cæsar's Bands
“Allotted their Debenture-Lands?”
Although I swear, I know no more
Of that, than what was ask'd before,
They stand amaz'd, and think me then
The most reserv'd of mortal Men.
Or Tail, about the Streets be spread,
Whoever meets me gravely nods,
And says, “As you approach the Gods,
“It is no Mystery to you,
“What do the Dacians mean to do?”
Indeed I know not—“How you joke,
“And love to sneer at simple Folk!”
But Vengeance seize this Head of mine,
If I have heard or can divine—
“Then, prithee, where are Cæsar's Bands
“Allotted their Debenture-Lands?”
Although I swear, I know no more
Of that, than what was ask'd before,
They stand amaz'd, and think me then
The most reserv'd of mortal Men.
Bewilder'd thus amidst a Maze,
I lose the Sun-shine of my Days,
And often wish: “Oh! when again
“Shall I behold the rural Plain?
“And when with Books of Sages deep,
“Sequester'd Ease, and gentle Sleep,
“In sweet Oblivion, blissful Balm,
“The busy Cares of Life becalm;
“Oh! when shall Pythagoric Beans,
“With wholesome Juice enrich my Veins?
“And Bacon-Ham and savoury Pottage
“Be serv'd beneath my simple Cottage?
“O Nights, that furnish such a Feast
“As even Gods themselves might taste!”
Thus fare my Friends, thus feed my Slaves,
Alert, on what their Master leaves!
I lose the Sun-shine of my Days,
225
“Shall I behold the rural Plain?
“And when with Books of Sages deep,
“Sequester'd Ease, and gentle Sleep,
“In sweet Oblivion, blissful Balm,
“The busy Cares of Life becalm;
“Oh! when shall Pythagoric Beans,
“With wholesome Juice enrich my Veins?
“And Bacon-Ham and savoury Pottage
“Be serv'd beneath my simple Cottage?
“O Nights, that furnish such a Feast
“As even Gods themselves might taste!”
Thus fare my Friends, thus feed my Slaves,
Alert, on what their Master leaves!
Each Person there may drink, and fill
As much, or little, as he will,
Exempted from the Bedlam-Rules
Of roaring Prodigals and Fools:
Whether, in merry Mood or Whim
He takes a Bumper to the Brim,
Or, better pleas'd to let it pass,
Grows mellow with a scanty Glass.
As much, or little, as he will,
Exempted from the Bedlam-Rules
Of roaring Prodigals and Fools:
Whether, in merry Mood or Whim
He takes a Bumper to the Brim,
Or, better pleas'd to let it pass,
Grows mellow with a scanty Glass.
Nor this Man's House, nor that's Estate
Becomes the Subject of Debate;
Nor whether Lepos, the Buffoon,
Can dance, or not, a Riggadoon;
But what concerns us more, I trow,
And were a Scandal not to know;
If Happiness consist in Store
Of Riches, or in Virtue more:
Whether Esteem, or private Ends
Direct us in the Choice of Friends:
What's real Good without Disguise,
And where its great Perfection lies.
While thus we spend the social Night,
Still mixing Profit with Delight,
My Neighbour Cervius never fails
To club his Part in pithy Tales:
Suppose Arellius, one should praise
Your anxious Opulence: he says—
Becomes the Subject of Debate;
Nor whether Lepos, the Buffoon,
Can dance, or not, a Riggadoon;
But what concerns us more, I trow,
And were a Scandal not to know;
If Happiness consist in Store
Of Riches, or in Virtue more:
Whether Esteem, or private Ends
Direct us in the Choice of Friends:
227
And where its great Perfection lies.
While thus we spend the social Night,
Still mixing Profit with Delight,
My Neighbour Cervius never fails
To club his Part in pithy Tales:
Suppose Arellius, one should praise
Your anxious Opulence: he says—
A Country-Mouse, as Authors tell,
Of old invited to her Cell
A City-Mouse, and with her best
Would entertain the courtly Guest.
Thrifty she was, and full of Cares
To make the most of her Affairs,
Yet in the midst of her Frugality
Would give a Loose to Hospitality.
In short, she goes, and freely fetches
Whole Ears of hoarded Oats, and Vetches,
Dry Grapes and Raisins cross her Chaps,
And dainty Bacon, but in Scraps,
If Delicacies could invite
My squeamish Lady's Appetite,
Who turn'd her Nose at ev'ry Dish,
And saucy piddled, with a—Pish!
Of old invited to her Cell
A City-Mouse, and with her best
Would entertain the courtly Guest.
Thrifty she was, and full of Cares
To make the most of her Affairs,
Yet in the midst of her Frugality
Would give a Loose to Hospitality.
In short, she goes, and freely fetches
Whole Ears of hoarded Oats, and Vetches,
Dry Grapes and Raisins cross her Chaps,
And dainty Bacon, but in Scraps,
If Delicacies could invite
My squeamish Lady's Appetite,
Who turn'd her Nose at ev'ry Dish,
And saucy piddled, with a—Pish!
The Matron of the House, reclin'd
On downy Chaff, discreetly din'd
On Wheat, and Darnel from a Manger,
And left the Dainties for the Stranger.
On downy Chaff, discreetly din'd
On Wheat, and Darnel from a Manger,
And left the Dainties for the Stranger.
The Cit, displeas'd at this Repast,
Attacks our simple Host at last.
“What Pleasure can you find, alack!
“To live behind a Mountain's Back?
“Would you prefer the Town, and Men,
“To this unsocial dreary Den,
“No longer, moaping, loiter here,
“But come with me to better Chear.
Attacks our simple Host at last.
“What Pleasure can you find, alack!
“To live behind a Mountain's Back?
229
“To this unsocial dreary Den,
“No longer, moaping, loiter here,
“But come with me to better Chear.
“Since Animals but draw their Breath,
“And have no Being after Death;
“Nor yet the Little, nor the Great,
“Can shun the Rigour of their Fate;
“At least be merry while you may,
“The Life of Mice is but a Day;
“Reflect on this, maturely live,
“And all that Day to Pleasure give.”
Encourag'd thus, the nimble Mouse,
Transported, sallies from her House:
They both set out, in hopes to crawl
At Night beneath the City-Wall;
And now the Night, elaps'd Eleven,
Possess'd the middle Space of Heaven,
When, harass'd with a Length of Road,
They came beneath a grand Abode,
Where Ivory Couches, overspread
With Tyrian Carpets, glowing, fed
The dazled Eye. To lure the Taste,
The Trophies of a costly Feast,
Remaining, fresh but Yesterday,
In Baskets, pil'd on Baskets, lay.
“And have no Being after Death;
“Nor yet the Little, nor the Great,
“Can shun the Rigour of their Fate;
“At least be merry while you may,
“The Life of Mice is but a Day;
“Reflect on this, maturely live,
“And all that Day to Pleasure give.”
Encourag'd thus, the nimble Mouse,
Transported, sallies from her House:
They both set out, in hopes to crawl
At Night beneath the City-Wall;
And now the Night, elaps'd Eleven,
Possess'd the middle Space of Heaven,
When, harass'd with a Length of Road,
They came beneath a grand Abode,
Where Ivory Couches, overspread
With Tyrian Carpets, glowing, fed
The dazled Eye. To lure the Taste,
The Trophies of a costly Feast,
Remaining, fresh but Yesterday,
In Baskets, pil'd on Baskets, lay.
When Madam on a purple Seat
Had plac'd her rustic Friend in State,
She bustles, like a busy Host,
Supplying Dishes boil'd and rost,
Nor yet omits the Courtier's Duty
Of tasting, ere she brings the Booty.
Had plac'd her rustic Friend in State,
She bustles, like a busy Host,
Supplying Dishes boil'd and rost,
Nor yet omits the Courtier's Duty
Of tasting, ere she brings the Booty.
231
The Country-Mouse, with Rapture strange,
Rejoices in her fair Exchange,
And lolling like an easy Guest,
Enjoys the Chear, and cracks her Jest.
When, on a sudden, opening Gates,
Loud-jarring, shook them from their Seats.
Rejoices in her fair Exchange,
And lolling like an easy Guest,
Enjoys the Chear, and cracks her Jest.
When, on a sudden, opening Gates,
Loud-jarring, shook them from their Seats.
They ran, affrighted, through the Room,
And, apprehensive of their Doom,
Now trembled more and more; when, hark!
The Mastiff-Dogs began to bark,
The Dome, to raise the Tumult more,
Resounded to the surly Roar.
And, apprehensive of their Doom,
Now trembled more and more; when, hark!
The Mastiff-Dogs began to bark,
The Dome, to raise the Tumult more,
Resounded to the surly Roar.
The Bumpkin then concludes, Adieu!
This Life, perhaps, agrees with you:
My Grove, and Cave, secure from Snares,
Shall comfort me with Chaff and Tares.
This Life, perhaps, agrees with you:
My Grove, and Cave, secure from Snares,
Shall comfort me with Chaff and Tares.
| A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace | |