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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| 2. | THE SECOND BOOK OF THE EPISTLES of HORACE. |
 | A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace |  |
377
THE SECOND BOOK OF THE EPISTLES of HORACE.
Epist. I. To Augustus.
While You alone sustain th' important Weight
Of Rome's Affairs, so various and so great:
While You the public Weal with Arms defend,
Adorn with Morals, and with Laws amend:
Shall not the tedious Letter prove a Crime,
That steals one Moment of our Cæsar's Time?
Of Rome's Affairs, so various and so great:
While You the public Weal with Arms defend,
Adorn with Morals, and with Laws amend:
Shall not the tedious Letter prove a Crime,
That steals one Moment of our Cæsar's Time?
Rome's Founder, Leda's Twins, the God of Wine,
By human Virtues rais'd to Power divine,
While they with pious Cares improv'd Mankind,
To various States their proper Bounds assign'd,
Commanded War's destroying Rage to cease,
And bless'd their Cities with the Arts of Peace,
Complain'd their Virtues and their Toils could raise
But slight Returns of Gratitude and Praise.
By human Virtues rais'd to Power divine,
While they with pious Cares improv'd Mankind,
To various States their proper Bounds assign'd,
Commanded War's destroying Rage to cease,
And bless'd their Cities with the Arts of Peace,
379
But slight Returns of Gratitude and Praise.
Who crush'd the Hydra, when to Life renew'd,
And Monsters dire with fated Toil subdu'd,
Found that the Monster Envy never dies,
'Till low in equal Death her Conqueror lies;
For he, who soars to an unusual Height,
Oppressive dazles, with Excess of Light,
The Arts beneath him: yet, when dead, shall prove
An Object worthy of Esteem and Love.
And Monsters dire with fated Toil subdu'd,
Found that the Monster Envy never dies,
'Till low in equal Death her Conqueror lies;
For he, who soars to an unusual Height,
Oppressive dazles, with Excess of Light,
The Arts beneath him: yet, when dead, shall prove
An Object worthy of Esteem and Love.
Yet Rome to Thee her living Honours pays,
By Thee we swear, to Thee our Altars raise,
While we confess no Prince so great, so wise,
Hath ever risen, or shall ever rise.
By Thee we swear, to Thee our Altars raise,
While we confess no Prince so great, so wise,
Hath ever risen, or shall ever rise.
But that your People raise their Cæsar's Name
Above the Greek and Roman Chiefs in Fame,
Proves them, in this, indeed, most just and wise,
Yet other Things they view with other Eyes;
With cold Contempt they treat the living Bard;
The Dead alone can merit their Regard.
Above the Greek and Roman Chiefs in Fame,
Proves them, in this, indeed, most just and wise,
Yet other Things they view with other Eyes;
With cold Contempt they treat the living Bard;
The Dead alone can merit their Regard.
To elder Bards so lavish of Applause,
They love the Language of our ancient Laws:
On Numa's Hymns with holy Rapture pore,
And turn our mouldy Records o'er and o'er,
Then swear transported, that the sacred Nine
Pronounc'd, on Alba's Top, each hallow'd Line.
They love the Language of our ancient Laws:
On Numa's Hymns with holy Rapture pore,
And turn our mouldy Records o'er and o'er,
Then swear transported, that the sacred Nine
Pronounc'd, on Alba's Top, each hallow'd Line.
381
But if, because the World with Justice pays
To the first Bards of Greece its grateful Praise,
In the same Scale our Poets must be weigh'd,
To such Disputes what Answer can be made?
Since we have gain'd the Height of martial Fame,
Let us in peaceful Arts assert our Claim;
The Sons of Greece no longer shall excel:
They neither wrestle, sing, or paint so well.
To the first Bards of Greece its grateful Praise,
In the same Scale our Poets must be weigh'd,
To such Disputes what Answer can be made?
Since we have gain'd the Height of martial Fame,
Let us in peaceful Arts assert our Claim;
The Sons of Greece no longer shall excel:
They neither wrestle, sing, or paint so well.
But let me ask, since Poetry, like Wine,
Is taught by Time to mellow and refine,
When shall th' immortal Bard begin to live?
Say, shall a hundred Years completely give
Among your Ancients a full Right of Claim,
Or with the wretched Moderns fix his Name?
Some certain Point should finish the Debate.
“Then let him live an hundred Years complete.”
Is taught by Time to mellow and refine,
When shall th' immortal Bard begin to live?
Say, shall a hundred Years completely give
Among your Ancients a full Right of Claim,
Or with the wretched Moderns fix his Name?
Some certain Point should finish the Debate.
“Then let him live an hundred Years complete.”
What if we take a Year, a Month, a Day,
From this judicious Sum of Fame away,
Shall he among the Ancients rise to Fame,
Or sink with Moderns to Contempt and Shame?
“Among the Ancients let the Bard appear,
“Though younger by a Month, or even a Year.”
I take the Grant, and by Degrees prevail
(For Hair by Hair I pull the Horse's Tail)
And while I take them Year by Year away,
Their subtle Heaps of Arguments decay,
Who judge by Annals, nor approve a Line,
'Till Death has made the Poetry divine.
From this judicious Sum of Fame away,
Shall he among the Ancients rise to Fame,
Or sink with Moderns to Contempt and Shame?
383
“Though younger by a Month, or even a Year.”
I take the Grant, and by Degrees prevail
(For Hair by Hair I pull the Horse's Tail)
And while I take them Year by Year away,
Their subtle Heaps of Arguments decay,
Who judge by Annals, nor approve a Line,
'Till Death has made the Poetry divine.
“Ennius, the brave, the lofty, and the wise,
“Another Homer in the Critic's Eyes,
“Forgets his Promise, now secure of Fame,
“And heeds no more his Pythagoric Dream.
“No longer Nævius, or his Plays remain,
“Yet we remember every pleasing Scene;
“So much can Time its awful Sanction give
“In sacred Fame to bid a Poem live.
“Another Homer in the Critic's Eyes,
“Forgets his Promise, now secure of Fame,
“And heeds no more his Pythagoric Dream.
“No longer Nævius, or his Plays remain,
“Yet we remember every pleasing Scene;
“So much can Time its awful Sanction give
“In sacred Fame to bid a Poem live.
“Whate'er Disputes of ancient Poets rise,
“In some one Excellence their Merit lies:
“What Depth of Learning old Pacuvius shows!
“With strong Sublime the Page of Accius glows;
“Menander's comic Robe Afranius wears;
“Plautus as rapid in his Plots appears,
“As Epicharmus; Terence charms with Art,
“And grave Cæcilius sinks into the Heart.
“These are the Plays to which our People croud,
“Till the throng'd Play-house crack with the dull Load.
“These are esteem'd the Glories of the Stage,
“From the first Drama to the present Age.”
“In some one Excellence their Merit lies:
“What Depth of Learning old Pacuvius shows!
“With strong Sublime the Page of Accius glows;
“Menander's comic Robe Afranius wears;
“Plautus as rapid in his Plots appears,
“As Epicharmus; Terence charms with Art,
“And grave Cæcilius sinks into the Heart.
“These are the Plays to which our People croud,
“Till the throng'd Play-house crack with the dull Load.
“These are esteem'd the Glories of the Stage,
“From the first Drama to the present Age.”
385
Sometimes the Croud a proper Judgement makes,
But oft they labour under gross Mistakes,
As when their Ancients lavishly they raise
Above all modern Rivalship of Praise.
But that sometimes their Style uncouth appears,
Or their harsh Numbers rudely hurt our Ears,
Or that full flatly flows the languid Line—
He, who owns this, hath Jove's Assent and mine.
But oft they labour under gross Mistakes,
As when their Ancients lavishly they raise
Above all modern Rivalship of Praise.
But that sometimes their Style uncouth appears,
Or their harsh Numbers rudely hurt our Ears,
Or that full flatly flows the languid Line—
He, who owns this, hath Jove's Assent and mine.
Think not I mean, in Vengeance, to destroy
The Works for which I smarted when a Boy.
But when as perfect Models they are prais'd,
Correct and chaste, I own I stand amaz'd.
And if some better Phrase or happier Line,
With sudden Lustre, unexpected shine,
However harsh the rugged Numbers roll,
It stamps a Price, and Merit on the whole.
The Works for which I smarted when a Boy.
But when as perfect Models they are prais'd,
Correct and chaste, I own I stand amaz'd.
And if some better Phrase or happier Line,
With sudden Lustre, unexpected shine,
However harsh the rugged Numbers roll,
It stamps a Price, and Merit on the whole.
I feel my honest Indignation rise,
When, with affected Air, a Coxcomb cries,
The Work, I own, has Elegance and Ease,
But sure no Modern should presume to please:
Then for his favourite Ancients dares to claim
Not Pardon only, but Rewards and Fame.
When, with affected Air, a Coxcomb cries,
The Work, I own, has Elegance and Ease,
But sure no Modern should presume to please:
Then for his favourite Ancients dares to claim
Not Pardon only, but Rewards and Fame.
When Flowers o'erspread the Stage and Sweets perfume
The crouded Theatre, should I presume
The just Success of Atta's Plays to blame,
The Senate would pronounce me lost to Shame.
What! criticise the Scenes, that charm'd the Age
When Æsop, and when Roscius trod the Stage!
The crouded Theatre, should I presume
The just Success of Atta's Plays to blame,
The Senate would pronounce me lost to Shame.
387
When Æsop, and when Roscius trod the Stage!
Whether too fond of their peculiar Taste,
Or that they think their Age may be disgrac'd,
Should they, with aukward Modesty, submit
To younger Judges in the Cause of Wit,
Or own that it were best, provoking Truth!
In Age to unlearn the Learning of their Youth.
He, to whom Numa's Hymns appear divine,
Although his Ignorance be great as mine,
Not to th' illustrious Dead his Homage pays,
But envious robs the Living of their Praise.
Did Greece, like us, her Moderns disregard,
How had we now possest one ancient Bard?
Or that they think their Age may be disgrac'd,
Should they, with aukward Modesty, submit
To younger Judges in the Cause of Wit,
Or own that it were best, provoking Truth!
In Age to unlearn the Learning of their Youth.
He, to whom Numa's Hymns appear divine,
Although his Ignorance be great as mine,
Not to th' illustrious Dead his Homage pays,
But envious robs the Living of their Praise.
Did Greece, like us, her Moderns disregard,
How had we now possest one ancient Bard?
When Greece beheld her Wars in Triumph cease,
She soon grew wanton in the Arms of Peace,
Now she with Rapture views th' Olympic Games,
And now the Sculptor's Power her Breast enflames;
Sometimes, with ravish'd Soul and ardent Gaze,
The Painter's Art intensely she surveys;
Now hears, transported, Music's pleasing Charms,
And now the tragic Muse her Passions warms.
She soon grew wanton in the Arms of Peace,
Now she with Rapture views th' Olympic Games,
And now the Sculptor's Power her Breast enflames;
Sometimes, with ravish'd Soul and ardent Gaze,
The Painter's Art intensely she surveys;
Now hears, transported, Music's pleasing Charms,
And now the tragic Muse her Passions warms.
Thus a fond Girl, the Nurse's darling Joy,
Now seeks impatient, and now spurns her Toy.
For what can long our Pain, or Pleasure raise?
Such are th' Effects of Happiness and Ease.
Now seeks impatient, and now spurns her Toy.
389
Such are th' Effects of Happiness and Ease.
For many an Age our Fathers entertain'd
Their early Clients, and the Laws explain'd:
Wisely they knew their cautious Wealth to lend,
While Youth was taught with Reverence to attend,
And hear the Old point out the prudent Ways
To calm their Passions, and their Fortunes raise.
Their early Clients, and the Laws explain'd:
Wisely they knew their cautious Wealth to lend,
While Youth was taught with Reverence to attend,
And hear the Old point out the prudent Ways
To calm their Passions, and their Fortunes raise.
Now the light People bend to other Aims;
A Lust of scribling every Breast enflames;
Our Youth, our Senators, with Bays are crown'd,
And at our Feasts eternal Rhimes go round.
Even I, who Verse, and all its Works deny,
Can faithless Parthia's lying Sons out-lye,
And, ere the rising Sun displays his Light,
I call for Tablets, Paper, Pens, and write.
A Lust of scribling every Breast enflames;
Our Youth, our Senators, with Bays are crown'd,
And at our Feasts eternal Rhimes go round.
Even I, who Verse, and all its Works deny,
Can faithless Parthia's lying Sons out-lye,
And, ere the rising Sun displays his Light,
I call for Tablets, Paper, Pens, and write.
A Pilot only dares a Vessel steer;
A doubtful Drug unlicens'd Doctors fear;
Musicians are to Sounds alone confin'd,
And every Artist hath his Trade assign'd;
But every desperate Blockhead dares to write:
Verse is the Trade of every living Wight.
A doubtful Drug unlicens'd Doctors fear;
Musicians are to Sounds alone confin'd,
And every Artist hath his Trade assign'd;
But every desperate Blockhead dares to write:
Verse is the Trade of every living Wight.
And yet, this wandering Levity of Brain
Hath many a gentle Virtue in its Train.
No Cares of Wealth a Poet's Heart controul;
Verse is the only Passion of his Soul.
He laughs at Losses, Flight of Slaves, or Fires;
No wicked Scheme his honest Breast inspires
To hurt his Pupil, or his Friend betray;
Brown Bread and Roots his Appetite allay;
And though unfit for War's tumultuous Trade,
In Peace his gentle Talents are display'd,
If you allow, that Things of trivial Weight
May yet support the Grandeur of a State.
Hath many a gentle Virtue in its Train.
No Cares of Wealth a Poet's Heart controul;
Verse is the only Passion of his Soul.
391
No wicked Scheme his honest Breast inspires
To hurt his Pupil, or his Friend betray;
Brown Bread and Roots his Appetite allay;
And though unfit for War's tumultuous Trade,
In Peace his gentle Talents are display'd,
If you allow, that Things of trivial Weight
May yet support the Grandeur of a State.
He forms the Infant's Tongue to firmer Sound,
Nor suffers vile Obscenity to wound
His tender Ears, but with the Words of Truth
Corrects the Passions, and the Pride of Youth.
Th' illustrious Dead, who fill his sacred Page,
Shine forth Examples to each rising Age;
The languid Hour of Poverty he chears,
And the sick Wretch his Voice of Comfort hears.
Nor suffers vile Obscenity to wound
His tender Ears, but with the Words of Truth
Corrects the Passions, and the Pride of Youth.
Th' illustrious Dead, who fill his sacred Page,
Shine forth Examples to each rising Age;
The languid Hour of Poverty he chears,
And the sick Wretch his Voice of Comfort hears.
Did not the Muse inspire the Poet's Lays,
How could the youthful Choir their Voices raise
In Prayer harmonious, while the Gods attend,
And gracious bid the fruitful Shower descend;
Avert their Plagues, dispel each hostile Fear,
And with glad Harvests crown the wealthy Year?
Thus can the Sound of all-melodious Lays
Th' offended Powers of Heaven and Hell appease.
How could the youthful Choir their Voices raise
In Prayer harmonious, while the Gods attend,
And gracious bid the fruitful Shower descend;
Avert their Plagues, dispel each hostile Fear,
And with glad Harvests crown the wealthy Year?
Thus can the Sound of all-melodious Lays
Th' offended Powers of Heaven and Hell appease.
393
Our ancient Swains, of hardy, vigorous Kind,
At Harvest-home us'd to unbend the Mind
With festal Sports; those Sports, that bad them bear,
With chearful Hopes, the Labours of the Year.
Their Wives and Children shar'd their Hours of Mirth,
Who shar'd their Toils; when to the Goddess Earth
Grateful they sacrific'd a teeming Swine,
And pour'd the milky Bowl at Sylvan's Shrine.
Then to the Genius of their fleeting Hours,
Mindful of Life's short Date, they offer'd Wine and Flowers.
At Harvest-home us'd to unbend the Mind
With festal Sports; those Sports, that bad them bear,
With chearful Hopes, the Labours of the Year.
Their Wives and Children shar'd their Hours of Mirth,
Who shar'd their Toils; when to the Goddess Earth
Grateful they sacrific'd a teeming Swine,
And pour'd the milky Bowl at Sylvan's Shrine.
Then to the Genius of their fleeting Hours,
Mindful of Life's short Date, they offer'd Wine and Flowers.
Here, in alternate Verse, with rustic Jest
The Clowns their aukward Raillery exprest,
And as the Year brought back the jovial Day,
Freely they sported, innocently gay,
Till cruel Wit was turn'd to open Rage,
And dar'd the noblest Families engage.
When some, who, by its Tooth envenom'd, bled,
Complain'd aloud; others were struck with Dread,
Though yet untouch'd, and, in the public Cause,
Implor'd the just Protection of the Laws,
Which from injurious Libels wisely guard
Our Neighbour's Fame; and now the prudent Bard,
Whom the just Terrours of the Lash restrain,
To Pleasure and Instruction turns his Vein.
The Clowns their aukward Raillery exprest,
And as the Year brought back the jovial Day,
Freely they sported, innocently gay,
Till cruel Wit was turn'd to open Rage,
And dar'd the noblest Families engage.
When some, who, by its Tooth envenom'd, bled,
Complain'd aloud; others were struck with Dread,
Though yet untouch'd, and, in the public Cause,
Implor'd the just Protection of the Laws,
395
Our Neighbour's Fame; and now the prudent Bard,
Whom the just Terrours of the Lash restrain,
To Pleasure and Instruction turns his Vein.
When conquer'd Greece brought in her captive Arts,
She triumph'd o'er her savage Conquerors' Hearts;
Taught our rough Verse its Numbers to refine,
And our rude Style with Elegance to shine.
And yet some Marks of our first, rustic Strain
Continued long, and even 'till now remain.
For it was late before our Bards inquir'd
How the Dramatic Muse her Greeks inspir'd;
How Æschylus and Thespis form'd the Stage,
And what improv'd the Sophoclean Page.
Then to their favourite Pieces we applied,
Proud to translate, nor unsuccessful tried,
For high and ardent is our native Vein,
It breathes the Spirit of the tragic Scene,
And dares successful; but the Roman Muse
Disdains, or fears the painful File to use.
She triumph'd o'er her savage Conquerors' Hearts;
Taught our rough Verse its Numbers to refine,
And our rude Style with Elegance to shine.
And yet some Marks of our first, rustic Strain
Continued long, and even 'till now remain.
For it was late before our Bards inquir'd
How the Dramatic Muse her Greeks inspir'd;
How Æschylus and Thespis form'd the Stage,
And what improv'd the Sophoclean Page.
Then to their favourite Pieces we applied,
Proud to translate, nor unsuccessful tried,
For high and ardent is our native Vein,
It breathes the Spirit of the tragic Scene,
And dares successful; but the Roman Muse
Disdains, or fears the painful File to use.
Because the comic Poet forms his Plays
On common Life, they seem a Work of Ease;
But, since we less Indulgence must expect,
Sure we should labour to be more correct.
Even Plautus ill sustains a Lover's Part,
A frugal Sire's or wily Pander's Art.
Dossennus slip-shod shambles o'er the Scene,
Buffoons, with hungry Jests, his constant Train;
For Gold was all their Aim, and then the Play
Might stand or fall—indifferent were they.
On common Life, they seem a Work of Ease;
But, since we less Indulgence must expect,
Sure we should labour to be more correct.
Even Plautus ill sustains a Lover's Part,
A frugal Sire's or wily Pander's Art.
397
Buffoons, with hungry Jests, his constant Train;
For Gold was all their Aim, and then the Play
Might stand or fall—indifferent were they.
He, who on Glory's airy Chariot tries
To mount the Stage, full often lives and dies.
A cold Spectator chills the Bard to Death,
But one warm Look recalls his fleeting Breath.
Such light, such trivial Things depress or raise
A Soul impassion'd with a Lust of Praise.
To mount the Stage, full often lives and dies.
A cold Spectator chills the Bard to Death,
But one warm Look recalls his fleeting Breath.
Such light, such trivial Things depress or raise
A Soul impassion'd with a Lust of Praise.
Farewel the Stage; for humbly I disclaim
Such fond Pursuits of Pleasure, or of Fame,
If I must sink in Shame, or swell with Pride,
As the gay Palm is granted or denied.
For sure the Bard, though resolutely bold,
Must quit the Stage, or tremble to behold
The little Vulgar of the clamorous Pit,
Though void of Honour, Virtue, Sense or Wit,
When his most interesting Scenes appear,
Call for a Prize-fight, or a baited Bear;
And should the Knights forbid their dear Delight,
They rise tumultuous, and prepare for Fight.
Such fond Pursuits of Pleasure, or of Fame,
If I must sink in Shame, or swell with Pride,
As the gay Palm is granted or denied.
For sure the Bard, though resolutely bold,
Must quit the Stage, or tremble to behold
The little Vulgar of the clamorous Pit,
Though void of Honour, Virtue, Sense or Wit,
When his most interesting Scenes appear,
Call for a Prize-fight, or a baited Bear;
And should the Knights forbid their dear Delight,
They rise tumultuous, and prepare for Fight.
But even our Knights from Wit and Genius fly
To pageant Shows, that charm the wandering Eye.
Clos'd are the Scenes, and lo! for many an Hour
Wide o'er the Stage the flying Squadrons pour.
Then Kings in Chains confess the Fate of War,
And weeping Queens attend the Victor's Car.
Chairs, Coaches, Carts, in ratling Rout are roll'd,
And Ships of mighty Bulk their Sails unfold.
At last the Model of some captive Towns,
In Ivory built, the splendid Triumph crowns.
To pageant Shows, that charm the wandering Eye.
Clos'd are the Scenes, and lo! for many an Hour
Wide o'er the Stage the flying Squadrons pour.
Then Kings in Chains confess the Fate of War,
And weeping Queens attend the Victor's Car.
399
And Ships of mighty Bulk their Sails unfold.
At last the Model of some captive Towns,
In Ivory built, the splendid Triumph crowns.
Sure, if Democritus were yet on Earth,
Whether a Beast of mix'd and monstrous Birth
Bid them with gaping Admiration gaze,
Or a white Elephant their Wonder raise,
The Croud would more delight the laughing Sage,
Than all the Farce, and Follies of the Stage;
To think that Asses should in Judgement sit,
In solid Deafness, on the Works of Wit.
For where's the Voice so strong as to confound
The Shouts, with which our Theatres resound?
Loud as when Surges lash the Tuscan Shore,
Or Mountain-Forests with a Tempest roar,
So loud the People's Cries, when they behold
The foreign Arts of Luxury and Gold;
And if an Actor be but richly drest,
Their Joy is in repeated Claps exprest.
But has he spoken? No. Then whence arose
That loud Applause? His Robe with Purple glows.
Whether a Beast of mix'd and monstrous Birth
Bid them with gaping Admiration gaze,
Or a white Elephant their Wonder raise,
The Croud would more delight the laughing Sage,
Than all the Farce, and Follies of the Stage;
To think that Asses should in Judgement sit,
In solid Deafness, on the Works of Wit.
For where's the Voice so strong as to confound
The Shouts, with which our Theatres resound?
Loud as when Surges lash the Tuscan Shore,
Or Mountain-Forests with a Tempest roar,
So loud the People's Cries, when they behold
The foreign Arts of Luxury and Gold;
And if an Actor be but richly drest,
Their Joy is in repeated Claps exprest.
But has he spoken? No. Then whence arose
That loud Applause? His Robe with Purple glows.
Though I attempt not the dramatic Muse,
Let me not seem in Envy to refuse
The Praises due to those, who with Success
Have try'd this Way to Fame, for I confess,
He gives a desperate Trial of his Art,
With Passions, not my own, who warms my Heart;
Who with unreal Terrours fills my Breast,
As with a magic Influence possest.
Let me not seem in Envy to refuse
The Praises due to those, who with Success
Have try'd this Way to Fame, for I confess,
He gives a desperate Trial of his Art,
With Passions, not my own, who warms my Heart;
401
As with a magic Influence possest.
But let the Bards some little Care engage,
Who dare not trust the rough, contemptuous Stage,
Yet to the Reader's Judgement would submit,
If You would offer to the God of Wit,
Such Volumes, as his best Protection claim;
Or would You warm them in Pursuit of Fame,
Bid them the Hills of Helicon ascend,
Where ever-green the flowery Lawns extend.
Who dare not trust the rough, contemptuous Stage,
Yet to the Reader's Judgement would submit,
If You would offer to the God of Wit,
Such Volumes, as his best Protection claim;
Or would You warm them in Pursuit of Fame,
Bid them the Hills of Helicon ascend,
Where ever-green the flowery Lawns extend.
Yet into sad Mishaps we Poets fall
(I own the Folly's common to us all)
When, to present the Labours of our Muse,
Your Hours of Business, or Repose we chuse;
When even the manly Freedom of our Friends,
Who blame one Verse, our Tenderness offends;
When we, unask'd, some favourite Lines repeat,
Complaining that our Toils, how wonderous great!
Are unobserv'd—that Subtlety of Thought,
That fine-spun Thread, with which our Poem's wrought:
Or when we hope, that soon as Cæsar knows,
That we can Rhimes abundantly compose,
Our Fortune's made; He shall to Court invite
Our bashful Muse, compelling us to write.
(I own the Folly's common to us all)
When, to present the Labours of our Muse,
Your Hours of Business, or Repose we chuse;
When even the manly Freedom of our Friends,
Who blame one Verse, our Tenderness offends;
When we, unask'd, some favourite Lines repeat,
Complaining that our Toils, how wonderous great!
Are unobserv'd—that Subtlety of Thought,
That fine-spun Thread, with which our Poem's wrought:
Or when we hope, that soon as Cæsar knows,
That we can Rhimes abundantly compose,
Our Fortune's made; He shall to Court invite
Our bashful Muse, compelling us to write.
Yet is it thine, O Cæsar, to enquire
How far thy Virtue can her Priests inspire,
In Peace or War, to sing her Hero's Fame,
Nor trust to worthless Bards the sacred Theme.
How far thy Virtue can her Priests inspire,
403
Nor trust to worthless Bards the sacred Theme.
Dan Chœrilus was Poet-Laureat made
By Philip's conquering Son, who bounteous paid
The Gold, on which his Father's Image shines,
For misbegotten and unshapen Lines;
And yet as Ink the spotless Hand defiles,
So our fair Fame a wretched Scribler soils.
By Philip's conquering Son, who bounteous paid
The Gold, on which his Father's Image shines,
For misbegotten and unshapen Lines;
And yet as Ink the spotless Hand defiles,
So our fair Fame a wretched Scribler soils.
Yet the same Monarch, who thus lavish paid
For worthless Rhimes, a solemn Edict made,
That none but fam'd Apelles dare to trace,
In desperate Colours, his imperial Face;
And that Lysippus should presume alone
To mould great Ammon's Son in Brass or Stone.
Yet take this Critic in the Arts, that lie
Beneath the Power and Judgement of the Eye,
Take him to Books, and Poetry, you'll swear,
This King was born in thick Bœotian Air.
For worthless Rhimes, a solemn Edict made,
That none but fam'd Apelles dare to trace,
In desperate Colours, his imperial Face;
And that Lysippus should presume alone
To mould great Ammon's Son in Brass or Stone.
Yet take this Critic in the Arts, that lie
Beneath the Power and Judgement of the Eye,
Take him to Books, and Poetry, you'll swear,
This King was born in thick Bœotian Air.
But never, Sir, shall your judicious Taste
By Virgil, or by Varius be disgrac'd,
For to your Bounty they shall grateful raise
A deathless Monument of Fame and Praise.
Nor form'd in Brass, with more Expression shines
The Hero's Face, than in the Poet's Lines
His Life and Manners; nor would Horace chuse
These low and groveling Numbers, could his Muse
The rapid Progress of your Arms pursue:
Paint distant Lands, and Rivers to the View:
Up the steep Mountain with thy War ascend,
Storm the proud Fort, and bid the Nations bend;
Or bid sell War's destructive Horrours cease,
And shut up Janus in eternal Peace,
While Parthia bows beneath the Roman Name,
And yields her Glories to our Prince's Fame.
By Virgil, or by Varius be disgrac'd,
For to your Bounty they shall grateful raise
A deathless Monument of Fame and Praise.
405
The Hero's Face, than in the Poet's Lines
His Life and Manners; nor would Horace chuse
These low and groveling Numbers, could his Muse
The rapid Progress of your Arms pursue:
Paint distant Lands, and Rivers to the View:
Up the steep Mountain with thy War ascend,
Storm the proud Fort, and bid the Nations bend;
Or bid sell War's destructive Horrours cease,
And shut up Janus in eternal Peace,
While Parthia bows beneath the Roman Name,
And yields her Glories to our Prince's Fame.
But Cæsar's Majesty would sure refuse
The feeble Praises of an humble Muse,
Nor I, with conscious Modesty, should dare
Attempt a Subject, I want Strength to bear;
For sure a foolish Fondness of the Heart,
At least, in rhiming and the Muse's Art,
Hurts whom it loves; for quickly we discern,
With Ease remember, and with Pleasure learn,
Whate'er may Ridicule and Laughter move,
Not what deserves our best Esteem and Love.
The feeble Praises of an humble Muse,
Nor I, with conscious Modesty, should dare
Attempt a Subject, I want Strength to bear;
For sure a foolish Fondness of the Heart,
At least, in rhiming and the Muse's Art,
Hurts whom it loves; for quickly we discern,
With Ease remember, and with Pleasure learn,
Whate'er may Ridicule and Laughter move,
Not what deserves our best Esteem and Love.
All such provoking Fondness I disclaim,
Nor would I stand expos'd to public Shame
In Wax-work form'd, with horrible Grimace,
Or in vile Panegyric shew my Face;
Blushing the fulsome Present to receive,
And with my Author be condemn'd to live;
Perhaps, in the same open Basket laid,
Down to the Street together be convey'd,
Where Pepper, Odours, Frankincense are sold,
And all small Wares in wretched Rhimes enroll'd.
Nor would I stand expos'd to public Shame
In Wax-work form'd, with horrible Grimace,
Or in vile Panegyric shew my Face;
407
And with my Author be condemn'd to live;
Perhaps, in the same open Basket laid,
Down to the Street together be convey'd,
Where Pepper, Odours, Frankincense are sold,
And all small Wares in wretched Rhimes enroll'd.
Epist. II. To Julius Florus.
Dear Florus, faithful to the Good and Brave,
If any Person, who would sell a Slave,
Should thus treat with you, “Sir, this Boy's compleat
“From Head to Foot, and elegantly neat:
“He shall be yours for fifty Pounds. He plays
“The Vassal's Part, and at a Nod obeys
“His Master's Will—then for the Grecian Tongue,
“He has a Relish—pliable and young,
“Like Clay, well-temper'd with informing Skill,
“He may be moulded to what Shape you will.
“His Notes are artless, but his Air is fine,
“To entertain you o'er a Glass of Wine.
“He sinks in Credit, who attempts to raise
“His venal Wares with over-rating Praise,
“To put them off his Hands. My Wants are none,
“My Stock is little, but that Stock my own.
“No common Dealer would resign a Slave
“On equal Terms, nor should another have
“So good a Bargain. Guilty of one Slip,
“It seems, and fearful of the pendent Whip,
“I own he loiter'd once. The Money pay;
“The Lad is only apt to run away.”
I think, he safely may the Sum enjoy:
You knew his Failing, and would buy the Boy:
The Form was legal, yet you still dispute
The Sale, and plague him with an endless Suit.
If any Person, who would sell a Slave,
Should thus treat with you, “Sir, this Boy's compleat
“From Head to Foot, and elegantly neat:
“He shall be yours for fifty Pounds. He plays
“The Vassal's Part, and at a Nod obeys
“His Master's Will—then for the Grecian Tongue,
“He has a Relish—pliable and young,
“Like Clay, well-temper'd with informing Skill,
“He may be moulded to what Shape you will.
“His Notes are artless, but his Air is fine,
“To entertain you o'er a Glass of Wine.
“He sinks in Credit, who attempts to raise
“His venal Wares with over-rating Praise,
“To put them off his Hands. My Wants are none,
“My Stock is little, but that Stock my own.
409
“On equal Terms, nor should another have
“So good a Bargain. Guilty of one Slip,
“It seems, and fearful of the pendent Whip,
“I own he loiter'd once. The Money pay;
“The Lad is only apt to run away.”
I think, he safely may the Sum enjoy:
You knew his Failing, and would buy the Boy:
The Form was legal, yet you still dispute
The Sale, and plague him with an endless Suit.
At your Departure I declar'd, my Vein
Was lull'd asleep, unable to sustain
The Task of Writing, lest I should offend
In corresponding never with my Friend.
But what avails whatever I can say,
If you demur against so just a Plea?
Besides you murmur, that my Muse betrays
Your Expectations in her promis'd Lays.
Was lull'd asleep, unable to sustain
The Task of Writing, lest I should offend
In corresponding never with my Friend.
But what avails whatever I can say,
If you demur against so just a Plea?
Besides you murmur, that my Muse betrays
Your Expectations in her promis'd Lays.
A common Soldier, who by various Toils
And Perils gain'd a Competence in Spoils,
At Night fatigu'd while he supinely snor'd,
Lost to a Farthing his collected Hoard.
This rous'd his Rage, in Vengeance for his Pelf,
Against the Foe, nor less against himself.
A very Wolf, with empty craving Maw,
Now whetting keen his wide-devouring Jaw,
He charg'd with Fury, as the Folks report,
Scal'd the high Wall, and sack'd a royal Fort,
Replete with various Wealth: for this renown'd,
His Name is honour'd, and his Courage crown'd:
Besides, in Money he receives a Meed,
A Sum proportion'd to the glorious Deed.
And Perils gain'd a Competence in Spoils,
At Night fatigu'd while he supinely snor'd,
Lost to a Farthing his collected Hoard.
This rous'd his Rage, in Vengeance for his Pelf,
Against the Foe, nor less against himself.
A very Wolf, with empty craving Maw,
Now whetting keen his wide-devouring Jaw,
He charg'd with Fury, as the Folks report,
Scal'd the high Wall, and sack'd a royal Fort,
Replete with various Wealth: for this renown'd,
His Name is honour'd, and his Courage crown'd:
411
A Sum proportion'd to the glorious Deed.
His Chief soon after purposing to form
Another Siege, and take a Town by Storm,
Began to rouse this Desperado's Fire
With Words, that might a Coward's Heart inspire.
“Go whither your heroic Spirit calls,
“Go, my brave Friend, propitious mount the Walls,
“And reap fresh Honours with an ample Prize:—
“What stops your Course?” The Rustic shrewd replies:
“An't please you, Captain, let another trudge it,
“The Man may venture, who has lost his Budget.”
Another Siege, and take a Town by Storm,
Began to rouse this Desperado's Fire
With Words, that might a Coward's Heart inspire.
“Go whither your heroic Spirit calls,
“Go, my brave Friend, propitious mount the Walls,
“And reap fresh Honours with an ample Prize:—
“What stops your Course?” The Rustic shrewd replies:
“An't please you, Captain, let another trudge it,
“The Man may venture, who has lost his Budget.”
It was my Fortune to be bred and taught
At Rome, what Woes enrag'd Achilles wrought
To Greece: kind Athens yet improv'd my Parts
With some small Tincture of ingenuous Arts,
To learn a right Line from a Curve, and rove
In search of Wisdom through the museful Grove.
But lo! the Times, destructive to my Peace,
Me rudely ravish'd from the charming Place;
The rapid Tide of civil War a-main
Swept into Arms, unequal to sustain
The Might of Cæsar. Dread Philippi's Field
First clipt my Wings, and taught my Pride to yield.
My Fortune ruin'd, blasted all my Views,
Bold Hunger edg'd, and Want inspir'd my Muse.
But say, what Dose could purify me, blest
With Store sufficient, should I break my Rest,
To scribble Verse? The waning Years apace
Steal off our Thoughts, and rifle every Grace;
Alas! already have they snatch'd away
My Jokes, my Love, my Revellings, and Play.
They strive to wrest my Poems from me too:
Instruct me then what Method to pursue.
In short, the Race of various Men admire
As various Numbers: thee the softer Lyre
Delights: This Man approves the tragic Strain;
That joys in Bion's keen satiric Vein.
At Rome, what Woes enrag'd Achilles wrought
To Greece: kind Athens yet improv'd my Parts
With some small Tincture of ingenuous Arts,
To learn a right Line from a Curve, and rove
In search of Wisdom through the museful Grove.
But lo! the Times, destructive to my Peace,
Me rudely ravish'd from the charming Place;
The rapid Tide of civil War a-main
Swept into Arms, unequal to sustain
The Might of Cæsar. Dread Philippi's Field
First clipt my Wings, and taught my Pride to yield.
My Fortune ruin'd, blasted all my Views,
Bold Hunger edg'd, and Want inspir'd my Muse.
413
With Store sufficient, should I break my Rest,
To scribble Verse? The waning Years apace
Steal off our Thoughts, and rifle every Grace;
Alas! already have they snatch'd away
My Jokes, my Love, my Revellings, and Play.
They strive to wrest my Poems from me too:
Instruct me then what Method to pursue.
In short, the Race of various Men admire
As various Numbers: thee the softer Lyre
Delights: This Man approves the tragic Strain;
That joys in Bion's keen satiric Vein.
Three Guests I have, dissenting at my Feast,
Requiring each to gratify his Taste
With different Food. What Courses must I chuse?
What not? What both would order, you refuse;
What you commend, offensive to their Sight
Would marr their Meal, and pall their Appetite.
Requiring each to gratify his Taste
With different Food. What Courses must I chuse?
What not? What both would order, you refuse;
What you commend, offensive to their Sight
Would marr their Meal, and pall their Appetite.
But think you, thus amidst a World of Cares
And Toils, that I can write harmonious Airs?
One bids me be his Bail: another prays,
That I would only listen to his Lays,
And leave all Business; more to raise your Wonder,
Although they live the length of Rome asunder,
Yet both must be obey'd: and here you see
A special Distance—“But the Streets are free,
“And, while you move with flowing Fancy fraught,
“Nothing occurs to disconcert your Thought.”
And Toils, that I can write harmonious Airs?
One bids me be his Bail: another prays,
That I would only listen to his Lays,
And leave all Business; more to raise your Wonder,
Although they live the length of Rome asunder,
415
A special Distance—“But the Streets are free,
“And, while you move with flowing Fancy fraught,
“Nothing occurs to disconcert your Thought.”
A Builder hastens with his loaded Team,
His Porters: now a Stone, and now a Beam
Nods cumbrous Ruin: justling Waggons jar
With mournful Herses in tumultuous War:
Hence runs a madding Dog with baneful Ire:
Thence a vile Pig polluted with the Mire.
Go then, and bustle through the noisy Throng,
Invoke the Muse, and meditate the Song.
His Porters: now a Stone, and now a Beam
Nods cumbrous Ruin: justling Waggons jar
With mournful Herses in tumultuous War:
Hence runs a madding Dog with baneful Ire:
Thence a vile Pig polluted with the Mire.
Go then, and bustle through the noisy Throng,
Invoke the Muse, and meditate the Song.
The Tribe of Writers to a Man admire
The peaceful Grove, and from the Town retire,
Devote to Bacchus, indolently laid,
Court soft Repose, and triumph in the Shade,
How then in Noise unceasing tune the Lay,
Or tread where others hardly find their Way.
The peaceful Grove, and from the Town retire,
Devote to Bacchus, indolently laid,
Court soft Repose, and triumph in the Shade,
How then in Noise unceasing tune the Lay,
Or tread where others hardly find their Way.
A manly Genius, who, long wont to chuse
The calm Retreat of Athens for his Muse,
Seven Years hath studied, and with meagre Looks
Hath waxen old in Discipline, and Books,
Dumb as a Statue slowly stalks along,
And yields Diversion to the gaping Throng.
The calm Retreat of Athens for his Muse,
Seven Years hath studied, and with meagre Looks
Hath waxen old in Discipline, and Books,
Dumb as a Statue slowly stalks along,
And yields Diversion to the gaping Throng.
Plung'd in a Tide of Business, through the Town
Toss'd by the noisy Tempest up and down,
How can my Muse with animating Fire
Adapt her Numbers to the sounding Lyre?
Toss'd by the noisy Tempest up and down,
How can my Muse with animating Fire
Adapt her Numbers to the sounding Lyre?
A Rhetorician, and a Lawyer once,
Brothers, and each in his Profession Dunce,
Dispens'd the Palms between themselves alone,
And this a Gracchus, that a Mucius shone.
What milder Frenzy goads the rhiming Train?
I deal in Lyric, he in mournful Strain:
How grand the Diction, copious the Design!
A wonderous Work, and polish'd by the Nine!
See, with what Air of magisterial Pride
And high Disdain we view from Side to Side
Apollo's Temple, as if we ourselves,
And none but we, supply'd the vacant Shelves!
Then follow farther, if your Time admits,
And at a Distance hear these mighty Wits;
How far entitled to his Blast of Praise,
Each freely gives, and arrogates the Bays.
Like Gladiators, who with bloodless Toils
Prolong the Combat, and engage with Foils,
With mimic Rage we rush upon the Foe,
Divide the Palm, and measure Blow for Blow.
Alcæus I in his Opinion shine,
He soars a new Callimachus in mine,
Or if Mimnermus more excite his Flame,
He struts and glories in the darling Name.
Brothers, and each in his Profession Dunce,
417
And this a Gracchus, that a Mucius shone.
What milder Frenzy goads the rhiming Train?
I deal in Lyric, he in mournful Strain:
How grand the Diction, copious the Design!
A wonderous Work, and polish'd by the Nine!
See, with what Air of magisterial Pride
And high Disdain we view from Side to Side
Apollo's Temple, as if we ourselves,
And none but we, supply'd the vacant Shelves!
Then follow farther, if your Time admits,
And at a Distance hear these mighty Wits;
How far entitled to his Blast of Praise,
Each freely gives, and arrogates the Bays.
Like Gladiators, who with bloodless Toils
Prolong the Combat, and engage with Foils,
With mimic Rage we rush upon the Foe,
Divide the Palm, and measure Blow for Blow.
Alcæus I in his Opinion shine,
He soars a new Callimachus in mine,
Or if Mimnermus more excite his Flame,
He struts and glories in the darling Name.
Much I endure, when writing I would bribe
The public Voice, and sooth the fretful Tribe
Of rival Poets: Now my rhiming Heat
Is cool'd, and Reason reassumes her Seat,
I boldly bar mine Ears against the Breed
Of babbling Bards, who without Mercy read.
The public Voice, and sooth the fretful Tribe
Of rival Poets: Now my rhiming Heat
Is cool'd, and Reason reassumes her Seat,
I boldly bar mine Ears against the Breed
Of babbling Bards, who without Mercy read.
419
Bad Poets ever are a standing Jest,
But they rejoice, and, in their Folly blest,
Admire themselves; nay, though you silent sit,
Extort Applause, and wanton in their Wit.
But he, who studies masterly to frame
A finish'd Piece, and build an honest Fame,
Shall with his Papers, faithful to his Trust,
Assume the Spirit of a Censor just,
Boldly blot out whatever seems obscure,
Or lightly mean, unworthy to procure
Immortal Honour, though the Words give way
With warm Reluctance, and by Force obey;
Though yet enshrin'd within his Desk they stand,
And claim a Sanction from his Parent Hand.
As from the Treasure of a latent Mine,
Long darken'd Words he shall with Art refine;
Full into Light, to dignify his Page,
Shall bring the Beauties of a former Age,
Once by the Catoes, and Cethegi told,
But now deform'd, and obsolete with Mould.
New Words he shall endenizen, which Use
Shall authorise, and currently produce;
Then, brightly smooth, and yet sublimely strong,
Like a pure River, through his flowing Song
Shall pour the Riches of his Fancy wide,
And bless his Latium with a vocal Tide.
Luxuriant Phrases, under due Command
He shall restrain with wholesom, forming Hand;
Polish the rude, and sever from its Place
Whatever wants an Elegance or Grace.
He seems with Freedom, what with Pain he proves,
And now a Satyr, now a Cyclops moves.
I, for my part, would rather fairly pass
For Dotard, Scribbler, stupid Dolt, or Ass,
Could I but please, or dupe myself in short,
Than write good Sense, and smart severely for't.
But they rejoice, and, in their Folly blest,
Admire themselves; nay, though you silent sit,
Extort Applause, and wanton in their Wit.
But he, who studies masterly to frame
A finish'd Piece, and build an honest Fame,
Shall with his Papers, faithful to his Trust,
Assume the Spirit of a Censor just,
Boldly blot out whatever seems obscure,
Or lightly mean, unworthy to procure
Immortal Honour, though the Words give way
With warm Reluctance, and by Force obey;
Though yet enshrin'd within his Desk they stand,
And claim a Sanction from his Parent Hand.
As from the Treasure of a latent Mine,
Long darken'd Words he shall with Art refine;
Full into Light, to dignify his Page,
Shall bring the Beauties of a former Age,
Once by the Catoes, and Cethegi told,
But now deform'd, and obsolete with Mould.
New Words he shall endenizen, which Use
Shall authorise, and currently produce;
Then, brightly smooth, and yet sublimely strong,
Like a pure River, through his flowing Song
Shall pour the Riches of his Fancy wide,
And bless his Latium with a vocal Tide.
421
He shall restrain with wholesom, forming Hand;
Polish the rude, and sever from its Place
Whatever wants an Elegance or Grace.
He seems with Freedom, what with Pain he proves,
And now a Satyr, now a Cyclops moves.
I, for my part, would rather fairly pass
For Dotard, Scribbler, stupid Dolt, or Ass,
Could I but please, or dupe myself in short,
Than write good Sense, and smart severely for't.
At Argos liv'd a Citizen, well known,
Who long imagin'd, that he heard the Tone
Of deep Tragedians on an empty Stage,
And sat applauding in extatic Rage:
In other Points a Person, who maintain'd
A due Decorum, and a Life unstain'd,
Whose real Virtues you might well commend,
A worthy Neighbour, hospitable Friend,
Of easy Humour and of Heart sincere,
Fond of his Wife, nor to a Slave severe,
Nor prone to Rage, although the Felon's Fork
Defac'd the Signet of a Bottle-Cork;
A Man, who shun'd (well knowing which was which)
The Rock high pendent, and the yawning Ditch;
He, when his Friends, at much Expence and Pains,
Had amply purg'd with Ellebore his Brains,
Wrought off his Madness, and the Man return'd
Full to himself, their Operation spurn'd.
“My Friends, 'twere better you had stopp'd my Breath;
“Your Love was Rancour, and your Cure was Death,
“To rob me thus of Pleasure so refin'd,
“The dear Delusion of a raptur'd Mind.
Who long imagin'd, that he heard the Tone
Of deep Tragedians on an empty Stage,
And sat applauding in extatic Rage:
In other Points a Person, who maintain'd
A due Decorum, and a Life unstain'd,
Whose real Virtues you might well commend,
A worthy Neighbour, hospitable Friend,
Of easy Humour and of Heart sincere,
Fond of his Wife, nor to a Slave severe,
Nor prone to Rage, although the Felon's Fork
Defac'd the Signet of a Bottle-Cork;
A Man, who shun'd (well knowing which was which)
The Rock high pendent, and the yawning Ditch;
He, when his Friends, at much Expence and Pains,
Had amply purg'd with Ellebore his Brains,
Wrought off his Madness, and the Man return'd
Full to himself, their Operation spurn'd.
“My Friends, 'twere better you had stopp'd my Breath;
“Your Love was Rancour, and your Cure was Death,
423
“The dear Delusion of a raptur'd Mind.
'Tis Wisdom's part to bid adieu to Toys,
And yield Amusements to the Taste of Boys,
Not the soft Sound of empty Words admire,
And model Measures to the Roman Lyre,
But learn such Strains and Rhapsodies, as roll
Tuneful through Life, and harmonise the Soul.
And yield Amusements to the Taste of Boys,
Not the soft Sound of empty Words admire,
And model Measures to the Roman Lyre,
But learn such Strains and Rhapsodies, as roll
Tuneful through Life, and harmonise the Soul.
If no Repletion from the limpid Stream
Allay'd the Cravings of your thirsty Flame,
You strait would tell the Doctor your Distress,
And is there none, to whom you dare confess,
That, in proportion to your growing Store,
Your Lust of Lucre is inflam'd the more?
If you were wounded, and your Sores imbib'd
No soothing Ease from Roots or Herbs prescrib'd,
You would avoid such Medicines, besure,
As Roots and Herbs, that could effect no Cure.
But you have heard, that Folly flies apace
From him, whom Heaven hath gifted with the Grace
Of happy Wealth, and though you have aspir'd
Not more to Wisdom, since you first acquir'd
A Fund, yet will you listen to no Rule,
But that from Fortune's insufficient School?
Could Riches add but Prudence to your Years,
Restrain your Wishes, and abate your Fears,
You then might blush with Reason, if you knew
One Man on Earth more covetous than you.
Allay'd the Cravings of your thirsty Flame,
You strait would tell the Doctor your Distress,
And is there none, to whom you dare confess,
That, in proportion to your growing Store,
Your Lust of Lucre is inflam'd the more?
If you were wounded, and your Sores imbib'd
No soothing Ease from Roots or Herbs prescrib'd,
You would avoid such Medicines, besure,
As Roots and Herbs, that could effect no Cure.
But you have heard, that Folly flies apace
From him, whom Heaven hath gifted with the Grace
Of happy Wealth, and though you have aspir'd
Not more to Wisdom, since you first acquir'd
A Fund, yet will you listen to no Rule,
But that from Fortune's insufficient School?
Could Riches add but Prudence to your Years,
Restrain your Wishes, and abate your Fears,
You then might blush with Reason, if you knew
One Man on Earth more covetous than you.
If that be yours, for which you fairly told
The Price concluded, (and, as Lawyers hold,
In some things Use a Property secures)
The Land, which feeds you, must of course be Yours.
Your Neighbour's Bailiff, who manures the Fields,
And sows the Corn, which your Provision yields,
Finds in effect, that he is but your Slave:
You give your Coin, and in Return receive
Fowls, Eggs, and Wine; and thus it will be found,
That you have bought insensibly the Ground,
The Fee of which to Purchasers before
Perhaps, had been two thousand Pounds, or more;
For what avails it in a Life well past,
At first to pay the Purchase, or at last?
The frugal Man, who purchas'd two Estates,
Yet buys the Pot-herbs, which his Worship eats,
Though he thinks not: this Tyrant of the Soil
Buys the mere Wood, which makes his Kettle boil;
And yet he calls that Length of Land his own,
From which the Poplar, fix'd to Limits known,
Cuts off Disputes, as if he had the Power
Of that, which in the Moment of an Hour
By Favour, Purchase, Force, or Fate's Commands
May change its Lord, and fall to other Hands.
The Price concluded, (and, as Lawyers hold,
425
The Land, which feeds you, must of course be Yours.
Your Neighbour's Bailiff, who manures the Fields,
And sows the Corn, which your Provision yields,
Finds in effect, that he is but your Slave:
You give your Coin, and in Return receive
Fowls, Eggs, and Wine; and thus it will be found,
That you have bought insensibly the Ground,
The Fee of which to Purchasers before
Perhaps, had been two thousand Pounds, or more;
For what avails it in a Life well past,
At first to pay the Purchase, or at last?
The frugal Man, who purchas'd two Estates,
Yet buys the Pot-herbs, which his Worship eats,
Though he thinks not: this Tyrant of the Soil
Buys the mere Wood, which makes his Kettle boil;
And yet he calls that Length of Land his own,
From which the Poplar, fix'd to Limits known,
Cuts off Disputes, as if he had the Power
Of that, which in the Moment of an Hour
By Favour, Purchase, Force, or Fate's Commands
May change its Lord, and fall to other Hands.
Since thus no Mortal properly can have
A lasting Tenure; and, as Wave o'er Wave,
Heir comes o'er Heir, what Pleasure can afford
Thy peopled Manors, and encreasing Hoard?
Or what avails it, that your Fancy roves
To join Lucanian to Calabrian Groves,
If Death, to Gold inflexible, must mow
Down Great and Small together at a Blow?
A lasting Tenure; and, as Wave o'er Wave,
Heir comes o'er Heir, what Pleasure can afford
Thy peopled Manors, and encreasing Hoard?
Or what avails it, that your Fancy roves
To join Lucanian to Calabrian Groves,
If Death, to Gold inflexible, must mow
Down Great and Small together at a Blow?
427
The gaudy Splendour, and the costly State
Of Jewels, Marble, Tuscan Medals, Plate,
Pure Ivory Statues, Pictures hung on high,
And Garments tinctur'd with Sidonian Dye,
There are, who never could pretend to share,
And some who never thought them worth their Care.
Of Jewels, Marble, Tuscan Medals, Plate,
Pure Ivory Statues, Pictures hung on high,
And Garments tinctur'd with Sidonian Dye,
There are, who never could pretend to share,
And some who never thought them worth their Care.
One Brother, fond of sauntering and Perfume,
Prefers his Pleasure to the wealthy Bloom
Of Herod's Gardens; while in quest of Wealth,
Though rich, another shall forego his Health,
From dawning Day till shady Night with Toil
Burn the thick Copse, and tame the savage Soil.
But whence these Turns of Inclination rose,
The Genius this, the God of Nature knows:
That mystic Power, which our Actions guides,
Attends our Stars, and o'er our Lives presides:
This we may trace, propitious, or malign,
Stamp'd on each Face, and vary'd through each Line.
Prefers his Pleasure to the wealthy Bloom
Of Herod's Gardens; while in quest of Wealth,
Though rich, another shall forego his Health,
From dawning Day till shady Night with Toil
Burn the thick Copse, and tame the savage Soil.
But whence these Turns of Inclination rose,
The Genius this, the God of Nature knows:
That mystic Power, which our Actions guides,
Attends our Stars, and o'er our Lives presides:
This we may trace, propitious, or malign,
Stamp'd on each Face, and vary'd through each Line.
I from a Fortune moderate shall grant
Myself enough to satisfy my Want,
Nor fear the Censure of my thankless Heir,
That I have left too little to his Share;
And yet the wide Distinction would I scan
Between an open, hospitable Man,
And Prodigal; the Frugalist secure,
And Miser, pinch'd with Penury; for sure
It differs whether you profusely spend
Your Wealth, or never entertain a Friend;
Or, wanting Prudence, like a Play-day Boy
Blindly rush on, to catch the flying Joy.
Avert, ye Gods, avert the loathsome Load
Of Want inglorious, and a vile Abode.
To me are equal, so they bear their Charge,
The little Pinnace and the lofty Barge.
Nor am I wafted by the swelling Gales
Of Winds propitious, with expanded Sails,
Nor yet expos'd to Tempest-bearing Strife,
Adrift to struggle through the Waves of Life,
Last of the first, first of the last in Weight,
Parts, Vigour, Person, Virtue, Birth, Estate.
Myself enough to satisfy my Want,
Nor fear the Censure of my thankless Heir,
That I have left too little to his Share;
And yet the wide Distinction would I scan
Between an open, hospitable Man,
And Prodigal; the Frugalist secure,
And Miser, pinch'd with Penury; for sure
It differs whether you profusely spend
Your Wealth, or never entertain a Friend;
Or, wanting Prudence, like a Play-day Boy
Blindly rush on, to catch the flying Joy.
429
Of Want inglorious, and a vile Abode.
To me are equal, so they bear their Charge,
The little Pinnace and the lofty Barge.
Nor am I wafted by the swelling Gales
Of Winds propitious, with expanded Sails,
Nor yet expos'd to Tempest-bearing Strife,
Adrift to struggle through the Waves of Life,
Last of the first, first of the last in Weight,
Parts, Vigour, Person, Virtue, Birth, Estate.
You are not covetous: be satisfy'd.
But are you tainted with no Vice beside?
From vain Ambition, Dread of Death's Decree,
And fell Resentment, is thy Bosom free?
Say, can you laugh indignant at the Schemes
Of magic Terrours, visionary Dreams,
Portentous Wonders, witching Imps of Hell,
The nightly Goblin, and enchanting Spell?
Dost thou recount with Gratitude and Mirth
The Day revolv'd, that gave thy Being birth?
Indulge the Failings of thy Friends, and grow
More mild and virtuous, as thy Seasons flow?
But are you tainted with no Vice beside?
From vain Ambition, Dread of Death's Decree,
And fell Resentment, is thy Bosom free?
Say, can you laugh indignant at the Schemes
Of magic Terrours, visionary Dreams,
Portentous Wonders, witching Imps of Hell,
The nightly Goblin, and enchanting Spell?
Dost thou recount with Gratitude and Mirth
The Day revolv'd, that gave thy Being birth?
Indulge the Failings of thy Friends, and grow
More mild and virtuous, as thy Seasons flow?
Pluck out one Thorn to mitigate thy Pain,
What boots it thee, while many more remain?
Or act with just Propriety your Part,
Or yield to those of Elegance and Art.
Already glutted with a Farce of Age,
'Tis Time for thee to quit the wanton Stage,
Lest Youth, more decent in their Follies, scoff
The nauseous Scene, and hiss thee reeling off.
What boots it thee, while many more remain?
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Or yield to those of Elegance and Art.
Already glutted with a Farce of Age,
'Tis Time for thee to quit the wanton Stage,
Lest Youth, more decent in their Follies, scoff
The nauseous Scene, and hiss thee reeling off.
| A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace | |