 | The Dawn in Britain |  |
Now Asiaticus, who, from Gaul, outsailed;
To wait, in Britain, on the imperial state;
Being Epicure's own son, and friend to Claudius:
(By certain his procurers, in Gauls' camps,
Men which can speech of Britons,) daily enquires;
What dainty pleasures Britain doth afford?
Yet lately showed this senator, in the field,
Was sprung, of worthy loins, his noble blood;
That could he, (as could Luculle,) both fight and eat.
In thickest strife, named tribune of a legion,
(For Dolabella hurt!) he led his soldiers,
All day; and with what countenance wont are Romans,
To lean, with flower-crowned brows, at solemn feasts.
To wait, in Britain, on the imperial state;
Being Epicure's own son, and friend to Claudius:
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Men which can speech of Britons,) daily enquires;
What dainty pleasures Britain doth afford?
Yet lately showed this senator, in the field,
Was sprung, of worthy loins, his noble blood;
That could he, (as could Luculle,) both fight and eat.
In thickest strife, named tribune of a legion,
(For Dolabella hurt!) he led his soldiers,
All day; and with what countenance wont are Romans,
To lean, with flower-crowned brows, at solemn feasts.
This lord, to banquet bids now the emperor Claudius;
Of such poor wilding thing, to taste, to-night,
As, (this side seas,) have found his Gaulish servants;
Of any singular savour, delicate;
Sturgeon and lamprey and eel, with poignant sauce;
Roebuck, and swan's fat roast, and snipes in paste.
And Chian, and Falernian wine he hath;
And mulse, of a ripe grape, from Roman Alban;
And oysters, which his shipmen fished, where Colne
To salt sea-flood, outgoes; more sapidous
Than what fat shells, are culled longs Tyrrhene strand.
Of such poor wilding thing, to taste, to-night,
As, (this side seas,) have found his Gaulish servants;
Of any singular savour, delicate;
Sturgeon and lamprey and eel, with poignant sauce;
Roebuck, and swan's fat roast, and snipes in paste.
And Chian, and Falernian wine he hath;
And mulse, of a ripe grape, from Roman Alban;
And oysters, which his shipmen fished, where Colne
To salt sea-flood, outgoes; more sapidous
Than what fat shells, are culled longs Tyrrhene strand.
Is only for them twain, this supper dight.
Shall maiden-captives serve them, which unlaced,
Unto the navel, loost-down their long locks;
Of perfect feature, each esteemed a talent;
And tickle the cold veins of Cæsar Claudius.
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Unto the navel, loost-down their long locks;
Of perfect feature, each esteemed a talent;
And tickle the cold veins of Cæsar Claudius.
Bright daughters of who noblest, mongst blue Britons,
(Were wont, companions of the Verulam's kings,
With them, on swift war-wheels, in field, to ride;)
In what day taken was great Cunobelin's dune,
By sudden assault, wherein your brethren slain;
Were ye also sold under Roman spear:
But not, for that, are bond your high-born hearts,
To your Land's insolent stranger enemies!
In your dear stedfast eyes, none wantonness
Hath dwelling-place: but their proud maidengaze,
Swart, little-statured Romans hath despised;
Naught matchable, to your people's comely youth!
(Were wont, companions of the Verulam's kings,
With them, on swift war-wheels, in field, to ride;)
In what day taken was great Cunobelin's dune,
By sudden assault, wherein your brethren slain;
Were ye also sold under Roman spear:
But not, for that, are bond your high-born hearts,
To your Land's insolent stranger enemies!
In your dear stedfast eyes, none wantonness
Hath dwelling-place: but their proud maidengaze,
Swart, little-statured Romans hath despised;
Naught matchable, to your people's comely youth!
Lo, the triclinium, in wide Seres tent,
(Without the walls, prepared, in a fresh mead,)
Of Asiaticus! There, on purple, couched,
At board, now Cæsar Claudius, leaning, quoth,
Good is this loaf, of sheaf reaped by our soldiers!
We also some will fraught, in ship, to Rome.
Which grind shall Briton captives; and, thereof,
Be loaves set, on all tables, in Rome's streets;
What day, to Roma's citizens, we shall make,
(As erewhile divus Julius,) triumph-feast.
(Without the walls, prepared, in a fresh mead,)
Of Asiaticus! There, on purple, couched,
At board, now Cæsar Claudius, leaning, quoth,
Good is this loaf, of sheaf reaped by our soldiers!
We also some will fraught, in ship, to Rome.
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Be loaves set, on all tables, in Rome's streets;
What day, to Roma's citizens, we shall make,
(As erewhile divus Julius,) triumph-feast.
Thy maidens, Friend, be like to marble nymphs,
Of Praxiteles, fetcht to Rome; those which
Stand in impluvium of our golden house;
Swift Cynthia's train, with silver bows; that seem,
And rattling quivers, on their budded breasts,
Leaping their high round flanks, on crystal feet,
Follow, with loud holloa! the chace in heaven.
Of Praxiteles, fetcht to Rome; those which
Stand in impluvium of our golden house;
Swift Cynthia's train, with silver bows; that seem,
And rattling quivers, on their budded breasts,
Leaping their high round flanks, on crystal feet,
Follow, with loud holloa! the chace in heaven.
This, which beside me, my Valerius, hath
So bright long hair-locks, like ringed wiry gold,
And gracious breast, whereon sit wooing doves,
Meseems that famous Cnidian Aphrodite,
Great goddess mother of our Julian house;
Whereby now Thermæ Agrippæ are adorned.
What, damsel! mix me cup of Lesbian wine;
And give, with kiss of Venus' lips, of love.
Ha, these, that skill not of our Latin tongue,
Hold scorn of Cæsar, Asiaticus!
So bright long hair-locks, like ringed wiry gold,
And gracious breast, whereon sit wooing doves,
Meseems that famous Cnidian Aphrodite,
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Whereby now Thermæ Agrippæ are adorned.
What, damsel! mix me cup of Lesbian wine;
And give, with kiss of Venus' lips, of love.
Ha, these, that skill not of our Latin tongue,
Hold scorn of Cæsar, Asiaticus!
And he; Have patience, lord; for they are barbarous!
Is the ignorant condition of all women,
They smally account of learning, wisdom, place;
But only of the first flower of a man's youth.
Would such not mock, and we their feet did kiss!
Is the ignorant condition of all women,
They smally account of learning, wisdom, place;
But only of the first flower of a man's youth.
Would such not mock, and we their feet did kiss!
This Briton loaf, accords, imperial Claudius,
Well with old Padan cheese of Mediolane,
And succory; and some mixt bitter herbs, therewith,
That make digestion sweet. A baxter, once,
That hurled the rumbling mill-stone, with his hand,
Robust, (hath left Terentius writ,) was Jove.
But more, and better, Epicurus saith;
Is earth Jove's mill-stone, whereon ever rolls,
(Frothing out infinite mortal miseries,)
His over-stone, grinding us men, to powder!
How cheers, to-night, my divine Claudius?
Well with old Padan cheese of Mediolane,
And succory; and some mixt bitter herbs, therewith,
That make digestion sweet. A baxter, once,
That hurled the rumbling mill-stone, with his hand,
Robust, (hath left Terentius writ,) was Jove.
But more, and better, Epicurus saith;
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(Frothing out infinite mortal miseries,)
His over-stone, grinding us men, to powder!
How cheers, to-night, my divine Claudius?
And, ruckling, he; Methought, beyond the seas,
This isle another world. Valerius quoth,
And thou, our god, join'dst that new world, to Rome!
Old Bacchus, women vanquished, in the East;
And men him called a god, for there found wine:
But Claudius conquered world of giants and corn!
Though many were the gods of the blue Britons,
Prevailed our divus Claudius o'er them all.
This isle another world. Valerius quoth,
And thou, our god, join'dst that new world, to Rome!
Old Bacchus, women vanquished, in the East;
And men him called a god, for there found wine:
But Claudius conquered world of giants and corn!
Though many were the gods of the blue Britons,
Prevailed our divus Claudius o'er them all.
That men made gods, may sooner be believed,
Than gods men made. If gods this mortal mould
Shaped, what may deem men of their handiwork!
But that were children then the blesséd gods!
Not their craft's-masters. Were none list of meats,
And gracious Venus' mirth, and Bacchus' cups;
Who, longer than his nonage, would, therein,
Continue, willingly! Taste victorious Claudius,
These shells, and shalt thou find them saporate,
Full of cold salty humour of the sea!
Than gods men made. If gods this mortal mould
Shaped, what may deem men of their handiwork!
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Not their craft's-masters. Were none list of meats,
And gracious Venus' mirth, and Bacchus' cups;
Who, longer than his nonage, would, therein,
Continue, willingly! Taste victorious Claudius,
These shells, and shalt thou find them saporate,
Full of cold salty humour of the sea!
And babbles Claudius, yexing in his talk;
Wherein lie pearls, which sought for Julius.
And he, to Britain, would invite Rome's Senate.
With vinegar, and tart wine of Tusculum,
They should esteem these oysters of the Colne!
Wherein lie pearls, which sought for Julius.
And he, to Britain, would invite Rome's Senate.
With vinegar, and tart wine of Tusculum,
They should esteem these oysters of the Colne!
Thus Claudius spake, returning from his vomit;
With awry garland on his reeling pate,
Hemmed with white locks. Sith, for his stomach's health,
Of Britons' mead, (as Nestor's cup,) with leeks,
And certain powdered cheese, prepared, he drinks.
With awry garland on his reeling pate,
Hemmed with white locks. Sith, for his stomach's health,
Of Britons' mead, (as Nestor's cup,) with leeks,
And certain powdered cheese, prepared, he drinks.
Better than crabbéd wisdom of rough brows,
Fond sophist's scorn, and sour wise-seeming looks;
(Being idle labour, of as vile account,
As daylong wafting of the forest's boughs,
Or quapping voice of the insensate waves,)
Is mirth, with present solace, and heart's feast.
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(Being idle labour, of as vile account,
As daylong wafting of the forest's boughs,
Or quapping voice of the insensate waves,)
Is mirth, with present solace, and heart's feast.
Thus Asiaticus: and cries, Her'kles! Claudius,
Thy saws sound better than Lucretius Carus;
Whose versets made I Attic in my youth;
When I the like, ha, my Valerius!
Or of more praise, could deftly turn, as this;
Celestial Sapience! Thou the phœnix bird,
That sings from heavenly spray, midst glittering stars;
Few are the days of men, in mortals' ears.
Are men the puppets of high heavenly gods.
Good reason then, were present joys embrace;
And not some cold conceit of things that be not:
Fools they, that lead their lives, in wilful death.
Thy saws sound better than Lucretius Carus;
Whose versets made I Attic in my youth;
When I the like, ha, my Valerius!
Or of more praise, could deftly turn, as this;
Celestial Sapience! Thou the phœnix bird,
That sings from heavenly spray, midst glittering stars;
Few are the days of men, in mortals' ears.
Are men the puppets of high heavenly gods.
Good reason then, were present joys embrace;
And not some cold conceit of things that be not:
Fools they, that lead their lives, in wilful death.
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This from the drivelling lips of Cæsar Claudius;
Who hardly, passed, three other years, in Rome,
Shall give, but only choice of unjust deaths,
To his companion Asiaticus!
Who hardly, passed, three other years, in Rome,
Shall give, but only choice of unjust deaths,
To his companion Asiaticus!
As them, this so rich consular ere commanded,
Kindled have mariners of his ship, to-night,
(Without, in the poor Britons' cindered street,)
Watchfires of rosin, sandal, pleasant woods:
As in his gardens, on the Pincian hill,
(Magnific alleys, fountains, porches, arcs,
Adorned with many famous statues,
Of vanquished Hellas,) is his sumptuous wont;
When any supped with him, of Cæsar's house.
Kindled have mariners of his ship, to-night,
(Without, in the poor Britons' cindered street,)
Watchfires of rosin, sandal, pleasant woods:
As in his gardens, on the Pincian hill,
(Magnific alleys, fountains, porches, arcs,
Adorned with many famous statues,
Of vanquished Hellas,) is his sumptuous wont;
When any supped with him, of Cæsar's house.
And being now all made ready, newly invites
That noble Senator, imperial Claudius:
Who, yexing, walks forth, leaning on his hand;
To gaze on Ilium, that yet flames, by night!
That noble Senator, imperial Claudius:
Who, yexing, walks forth, leaning on his hand;
To gaze on Ilium, that yet flames, by night!
| The Dawn in Britain | |