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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Epist. XVII. To Scæva.
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 | A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace |  |
Epist. XVII. To Scæva.
Although my Scæva knows with Art complete,
How to converse familiar with the Great,
Yet to th' Instruction of an humble Friend,
Who would himself be better taught, attend:
Though blind your Guide, some Precepts yet unknown
He may disclose, which you may make your own.
How to converse familiar with the Great,
Yet to th' Instruction of an humble Friend,
Who would himself be better taught, attend:
Though blind your Guide, some Precepts yet unknown
He may disclose, which you may make your own.
Are you with tranquil, quiet Pleasure blest,
Or after Sun-rise love an Hour of Rest;
If dusty Streets; the ratling Chariot's Noise,
Or if the neighbouring Tavern's mid-night Joys,
Delight you not, by my Advice retreat
To the calm Raptures of a rural Seat:
For Pleasure's not confin'd to Wealth alone,
Nor ill he lives, who lives and dies unknown;
But would you serve your Friends and joyous waste
The bounteous Hour, perfume you for the Feast.
Or after Sun-rise love an Hour of Rest;
If dusty Streets; the ratling Chariot's Noise,
Or if the neighbouring Tavern's mid-night Joys,
Delight you not, by my Advice retreat
To the calm Raptures of a rural Seat:
351
Nor ill he lives, who lives and dies unknown;
But would you serve your Friends and joyous waste
The bounteous Hour, perfume you for the Feast.
His patient Herbs could Aristippus eat,
He had disdain'd the Tables of the Great;
And He, who censures me, the Sage replies,
If he could live with Kings, would Herbs despise.
He had disdain'd the Tables of the Great;
And He, who censures me, the Sage replies,
If he could live with Kings, would Herbs despise.
Tell me, which likes you best, or, younger, hear,
Why Aristippus' Maxims best appear;
For with the snarling Cynic well he play'd,
“I am my own Buffoon, You take the Trade
“To please the Croud; yet sure 'tis better Pride,
“Maintain'd by Monarchs, on my Horse to ride.
“And while at Court observant I attend,
“For Things of Vileness You submissive bend;
“Own a Superior, and yet proudly vaunt,
“Imperious Cynic, that you nothing want.”
Why Aristippus' Maxims best appear;
For with the snarling Cynic well he play'd,
“I am my own Buffoon, You take the Trade
“To please the Croud; yet sure 'tis better Pride,
“Maintain'd by Monarchs, on my Horse to ride.
“And while at Court observant I attend,
“For Things of Vileness You submissive bend;
“Own a Superior, and yet proudly vaunt,
“Imperious Cynic, that you nothing want.”
Yet Aristippus every Dress became:
In every various Change of Life the same;
And though he aim'd at Things of higher Kind,
Yet to the present held an equal Mind.
But that a Man, whom Patience taught to wear
A double Coat, should ever learn to bear
A Change of Life, with Decency and Ease,
May justly, I confess, our Wonder raise.
In every various Change of Life the same;
And though he aim'd at Things of higher Kind,
Yet to the present held an equal Mind.
But that a Man, whom Patience taught to wear
A double Coat, should ever learn to bear
A Change of Life, with Decency and Ease,
May justly, I confess, our Wonder raise.
353
Yet Aristippus, though but meanly drest,
Nor wants, nor wishes for, a purple Vest;
He walks, regardless of the public Gaze,
And knows in every Character to please;
But neither Dog's, nor Snake's envenom'd Bite
Can, like a silken Robe, the Cynic fright.
“Give him his Mantle, or he dies with Cold”—
“Nay give it, let the Fool his Blessing hold.”
Nor wants, nor wishes for, a purple Vest;
He walks, regardless of the public Gaze,
And knows in every Character to please;
But neither Dog's, nor Snake's envenom'd Bite
Can, like a silken Robe, the Cynic fright.
“Give him his Mantle, or he dies with Cold”—
“Nay give it, let the Fool his Blessing hold.”
In glorious War a Triumph to obtain,
Cœlestial Honours, and a Seat shall gain
Fast by the Throne of Jove; nor mean the Praise
These Deities of human Kind to please.
Cœlestial Honours, and a Seat shall gain
Fast by the Throne of Jove; nor mean the Praise
These Deities of human Kind to please.
“But, midst the Storms and Tempests of a Court,
“Not every one shall reach the wish'd-for Port;
“And sure the Man, who doubts of his Success,
“Wisely declines th' Attempt”—Then you confess,
That who succeeds, thus difficult his Part,
Gives the best Proof of Courage, as of Art.
“Not every one shall reach the wish'd-for Port;
“And sure the Man, who doubts of his Success,
“Wisely declines th' Attempt”—Then you confess,
That who succeeds, thus difficult his Part,
Gives the best Proof of Courage, as of Art.
Then, here, or no where, we the Truth shall find;
Conscious how weak in Body or in Mind,
When we behold the Burden with Despair,
Which others boldly try, with Spirit bear,
If Virtue's aught beyond an empty Name,
Rewards and Honours they with Justice claim.
Conscious how weak in Body or in Mind,
When we behold the Burden with Despair,
Which others boldly try, with Spirit bear,
If Virtue's aught beyond an empty Name,
Rewards and Honours they with Justice claim.
355
In Silence who their Poverty conceal,
More than th' importunate, with Kings prevail:
And whether we with modest Action take,
Or snatch the Favour, may some Difference make.
More than th' importunate, with Kings prevail:
And whether we with modest Action take,
Or snatch the Favour, may some Difference make.
From this fair Fountain our best Profits rise,
For when with plaintive Tone a Suppliant cries,
My Sister lies unportion'd on my Hands:
My Mother's poor, nor can I sell my Lands,
Or they maintain me; might he not have said,
Give me, ah! give me, Sir, my daily Bread?
While he, who hears him, chaunts on t'other Side,
With me your Bounty, ah! with me divide;
But had the Crow his Food in Silence eat,
Less had his Quarrels been, and more his Meat.
For when with plaintive Tone a Suppliant cries,
My Sister lies unportion'd on my Hands:
My Mother's poor, nor can I sell my Lands,
Or they maintain me; might he not have said,
Give me, ah! give me, Sir, my daily Bread?
While he, who hears him, chaunts on t'other Side,
With me your Bounty, ah! with me divide;
But had the Crow his Food in Silence eat,
Less had his Quarrels been, and more his Meat.
A Jaunt of Pleasure should my Lord intend,
And with him deign to take an humble Friend,
To talk of broken Roads, of Cold and Rain,
Or of his plunder'd Baggage to complain,
Is but the Trick, which wily Harlots try,
Who for a Girdle, or a Necklace, cry;
So oft they weep, that we believe no more,
When they with Tears a real Loss deplore.
He, whom a lying Lameness once deceives,
No more the falling Vagabond believes,
And though with streaming Tears the Caitiff cries,
Help me, Ah! Cruel! help a Wretch to rise;
Though loud he swear, “my Leg is really broke;
“By great Osiris I no longer joke;”
Yet the hoarse Village answers to his Cries,
Go find a Stranger to believe your Lyes.
And with him deign to take an humble Friend,
To talk of broken Roads, of Cold and Rain,
Or of his plunder'd Baggage to complain,
Is but the Trick, which wily Harlots try,
Who for a Girdle, or a Necklace, cry;
So oft they weep, that we believe no more,
When they with Tears a real Loss deplore.
He, whom a lying Lameness once deceives,
No more the falling Vagabond believes,
And though with streaming Tears the Caitiff cries,
Help me, Ah! Cruel! help a Wretch to rise;
Though loud he swear, “my Leg is really broke;
“By great Osiris I no longer joke;”
357
Go find a Stranger to believe your Lyes.
| A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace | |