University of Virginia Library

TRANSLATIONS

THE DESTRUCTION OF TROY

While all with silence & attention wait,
Thus speaks Æneas from the bed of State:
Madam, when you command us to review
Our Fate, you make our old wounds bleed anew
And all those sorrows to my sence restore,
Whereof none saw so much, none suffer'd more:
Not the most cruel of Our conqu'ring Foes
So unconcern'dly can relate our woes,
As not to lend a tear, Then how can I
Repress the horror of my thoughts, which fly
The sad remembrance? Now th'expiring night
And the declining Stars to rest invite;
Yet since 'tis your command, what you, so well
Are pleas'd to hear, I cannot grieve to tell.
By Fate repell'd, and with repulses tyr'd,
The Greeks, so many Lives and years expir'd,
A Fabrick like a moving Mountain frame,
Pretending vows for their return; This, Fame
Divulges, then within the beasts vast womb
The choice and flower of all their Troops intomb,
In view the Isle of Tenedos, once high
In fame and wealth, while Troy remain'd, doth lie,
(Now but an unsecure and open Bay)
Thither by stealth the Greeks their Fleet convey:
We gave them gone, and to Mycenæ sail'd,
And Troy reviv'd, her mourning face unvail'd;
All through th'unguarded Gates with joy resort
To see the slighted Camp, the vacant Port;
Here lay Ulysses, there Achilles, here
The Battels joyn'd, the Grecian Fleet rode there;
But the vast Pile th'amazed vulgar views
Till they their Reason in their wonder lose;
And first Tymætes moves, (urg'd by the Power
Of Fate, or Fraud) to place it in the Tower,
But Capis and the graver sort thought fit,
The Greeks suspected Present to commit
To Seas or Flames, at least to search and bore
The sides, and what that space contains t'explore;
Th'uncertain Multitude with both engag'd,
Divided stands, till from the Tower, enrag'd
Laocoon ran, whom all the crowd attends,
Crying, what desperat Frenzy's this? (oh friends)
To think them gone? Judge rather their retreat
But a design, their gifts but a deceit,
For our Destruction 'twas contriv'd no doubt,
Or from within by fraud, or from without
By force; yet know ye not Ulysses shifts?
Their swords less danger carry than their gifts.
(This said) against the Horses side, his spear
He throws, which trembles with inclosed fear,
Whilst from the hollows of his womb proceed
Groans, not his own; And had not Fate decreed
Our Ruine, We had fill'd with Grecian blood
The Place, Then Troy and Priam's Throne had stood;
Meanwhile a fetter'd pris'ner to the King
With joyful shouts the Dardan Shepherds bring,
Who to betray us did himself betray,
At once the Taker, and at once the Prey,
Firmly prepar'd, of one Event secur'd,
Or of his Death or his Design assur'd.
The Trojan Youth about the Captive flock,
To wonder, or to pity, or to mock.
Now hear the Grecian fraud, and from this one
Conjecture all the rest.
Disarm'd, disorder'd, casting round his eyes
On all the Troops that guarded him, he cries,
What Land, what Sea, for me what Fate attends?
Caught by my Foes, condemned by my Friends,
Incensed Troy a wretched Captive seeks
To sacrifice, a Fugitive, the Greeks.
To Pity, This Complaint our former Rage,
Converts, we now enquire his Parentage,
What of their Councils, or affairs he knew,
Then fearless, he replies, Great King to you
All truth I shall relate: Nor first can I
My self to be of Grecian birth deny,
And though my outward state, misfortune hath
Deprest thus low, it cannot reach my Faith.
You may by chance have heard the famous name
Of Palimede, who from old Belus came,
Whom, but for voting Peace, the Greeks pursue,
Accus'd unjustly, then unjustly slew,
Yet mourn'd his death. My Father was his friend,
And me to his commands did recommend,
While Laws and Councils did his Throne support,
I but a youth, yet some Esteem and Port
We then did bear, till by Ulysses craft
(Things known I speak) he was of life bereft:
Since in dark sorrow I my days did spend,
Till now disdaining his unworthy end
I could not silence my Complaints, but vow'd
Revenge, if ever fate or chance allow'd
My wisht return to Greece; from hence his hate,
From thence my crimes, and all my ills bear date:
Old guilt fresh malice gives; The peoples ears
He fills with rumors, and their hearts with fears,
And then the Prophet to his party drew.
But why do I these thankless truths pursue;
Or why defer your Rage? on me, for all
The Greeks, let your revenging fury fall.
Ulysses this, th'Atridæ this desire
At any rate. We streight are set on fire
(Unpractis'd in such Mysteries) to enquire
The manner and the cause, Which thus he told
With gestures humble, as his Tale was bold.
Oft have the Greeks (the siege detesting) tyr'd
With tedious war, a stoln retreat desir'd,
And would to heaven they had gone: But still dismay'd
By Seas or Skies, unwillingly they stay'd,
Chiefly when this stupendious Pile was rais'd
Strange noises fill'd the Air, we all amaz'd
Dispatch Eurypilus to enquire our Fates
Who thus the sentence of the Gods relates,
A Virgins slaughter did the storm appease
When first towards Troy the Grecians took the Seas,
Their safe retreat another Grecians blood
Must purchase; All, at this confounded stood:
Each thinks himself the Man, the fear on all
Of what, the mischief, but on one can fall:
Then Calchas (by Ulysses first inspir'd)
Was urg'd to name whom th'angry Gods requir'd,
Yet was I warn'd (for many were as well
Inspir'd as he) and did my fate foretel.
Ten days the Prophet in suspence remain'd,
Would no mans fate pronounce; at last constrain'd
By Ithacus, he solemnly design'd
Me for the Sacrifice; the people joyn'd
In glad consent, and all their common fear
Determine in my fate, the day drew near;
The sacred Rites prepar'd, my temples crown'd
With holy wreaths, Then I confess I found
The means to my escape, my bonds I brake,
Fled from my Guards, and in a muddy Lake
Amongst the Sedges all the night lay hid,
Till they their Sails had hoist (if so they did)
And now alas no hope remains for me
My home, my father and my sons to see,
Whom, they enrag'd, will kill for my Offence,
And punish for my guilt their Innocence.
Those Gods who know the Truths I now relate,
That faith which yet remains inviolate
By mortal men, By these I beg, redress
My causless wrongs, and pity such distress.
And now true Pity in exchange he finds
For his false Tears, his Tongue, his hands unbinds.
Then spake the King, be Ours whoere thou art,
Forget the Greeks. But first the truth impart,
Why did they raise, or to what use intend
This Pile? to a Warlike, or Religious end?
Skilful in fraud, (his native Art) his hands
Toward heaven he rais'd, deliver'd now from bands.
Ye pure, Æthereal flames, ye Powers ador'd
By mortal men, ye Altars, and the sword
I scap'd; ye sacred Fillets that involv'd
My destin'd head, grant I may stand absolv'd
From all their Laws and Rites, renounce all name
Of faith or love, their secret thoughts proclaim;
Only O Troy, preserve thy faith to me,
If what I shall relate preserveth thee.
From Pallas favour, all our hopes, and all
Counsels, and Actions took Original,
Till Diomed (for such attempts made fit
By dire conjunction with Ulysses wit)
Assails the sacred Tower, the Guards they slay,
Defile with bloudy hands, and thence convey
The fatal Image; straight with our success
Our hopes fell back, whilst prodigies express
Her just disdain, her flaming eyes did throw
Flashes of lightning, from each part did flow
A briny sweat, thrice brandishing her spear,
Her Statue from the ground it self did rear;
Then, that we should our Sacrilege restore
And reconveigh their Gods from Argos shore,
Calchas perswades, till then we urge in vain
The fate of Troy. To measure back the Main
They all consent, but to return agen,
When re-inforc'd with aids of Gods and men.
Thus Calchas, then instead of that, this Pile
To Pallas was design'd; to reconcile
Th'offended Power, and expiate our guilt,
To this vast height and monstrous stature built,
Lest through your gates receiv'd, it might renew
Your vows to her, and her Defence to you.
But if this sacred gift you dis-esteem,
Then cruel Plagues (which heaven divert on them)
Shall fall on Priams State: but if the horse
Your walls ascend, assisted by your force,
A League 'gainst Greece all Asia shall contract;
Our Sons then suffering what their Sires would act.
Thus by his fraud and our own faith o'recome,
A feigned tear destroys us, against whom
Tydides nor Achilles could prevail,
Nor ten years conflict, nor a thousand sail.
This seconded by a most sad Portent
Which credit to the first imposture lent;
Laocoon, Neptunes Priest, upon the day
Devoted to that God, a Bull did slay,
When two prodigious serpents were descride,
Whose circling stroaks the Seas smooth face divide;
Above the deep they raise their scaly Crests,
And stem the floud with their erected brests,
Their winding tails advance and steer their course,
And 'gainst the shore the breaking Billow force.
Now landing, from their brandisht tongues there came
A dreadful hiss, and from their eyes a flame:
Amaz'd we fly, directly in a line
Laocoon they pursue, and first intwine
(Each preying upon one) his tender sons,
Then him, who armed to their rescue runs,
They seiz'd, and with intangling folds embrac'd
His neck twice compassing, and twice his wast,
Their poys'nous knots he strives to break, and tear,
Whilst slime and bloud his sacred wreaths besmear,
Then loudly roars, as when th'enraged Bull
From th'Altar flies, and from his wounded skull
Shakes the huge Ax; the conqu'ring serpents fly
To cruel Pallas Altar, and there ly
Under her feet, within her shields extent;
We in our fears conclude this fate was sent
Justly on him, who struck the Sacred Oak
With his accursed Lance. Then to invoke
The Goddess, and let in the fatal horse
We all consent:
A spacious breach we make, & Troys proud wall
Built by the Gods, by our own hands doth fall;
Thus, all their help to their own ruine give,
Some draw with cords, and some the Monster drive
With Rolls and Leavers, thus our works it climbs,
Big with our fate, the youth with Songs and Rhimes,
Some dance, some hale the Rope; at last let down
It enters with a thundering noise the Town.
O Troy the seat of Gods, in war renown'd;
Three times it stuck, as oft the clashing sound
Of Arms was heard, yet blinded by the Power
Of Fate, we place it in the sacred Tower.
Cassandra then foretels th'event, but she
Finds no belief (such was the Gods decree.)
The Altars with fresh flowers we crown, & wast
In Feasts that day, which was (alas) our last.
Now by the revolution of the Skies,
Nights sable shadows from the Ocean rise,
Which heaven and earth, and the Greek frauds involv'd,
The City in secure repose dissolv'd,
When from the Admirals high Poop appears
A light, by which the Argive Squadron Steers
Their silent course to Iliums well known Shore,
When Synon (sav'd by the Gods partial power)
Opens the horse, and through the unlockt doors
To the free Ayr the armed fraight restores:
Ulysses, Stenelus, Tysander slide
Down by a Rope, Machaon was their guide;
Atrides, Pyrrhus, Thoas, Athamas,
And Epeus who the frauds contriver was,
The Gates they seize, the Guards with sleep and wine
Opprest, surprize, and then their forces joyn.
'Twas then, when the first sweets of sleep repair
Our bodies spent with toil, our minds with care
(The Gods best gift) When bath'd in tears and blood
Before my face lamenting Hector stood,
Such his aspect when soyl'd with bloudy dust
Dragg'd by the cords which through his feet were thrust
By his insulting Foe; O how transform'd!
How much unlike that Hector who return'd
Clad in Achilles spoyls; when he, among
A thousand ships (like Jove) his Lightning flung;
His horrid Beard and knotted Tresses stood
Stiff with his gore, & all his wounds ran blood,
Intranc'd I lay, then (weeping) said, The Joy,
The hope and stay of thy declining Troy;
What Region held thee, whence, so much desir'd,
Art thou restor'd to us consum'd and tir'd
With toyls and deaths; but what sad cause confounds
Thy once fair looks, or why appear those wounds?
Regardless of my words, he no reply
Returns, but with a dreadful groan doth cry,
Fly from the Flame, O Goddess-born, our walls
The Greeks possess, and Troy confounded falls
From all her Glories; if it might have stood
By any Power, by this right hand it should.
What Man could do, by me for Troy was done,
Take here her Reliques and her Gods, to run
With them they Fate, with them new Walls expect,
Which, tost on Seas, thou shalt at last erect;
Then brings old Vesta from her sacred Quire,
Her holy Wreaths, and her eternal Fire.
Mean while the Walls with doubtful cries resound
From far (for shady coverts did surround
My Fathers house) approaching still more near
The clash of Arms, and voice of men we hear:
Rowz'd from my Bed, I speedily ascend
The house's top, and listning there attend,
As flames rowl'd by the winds conspiring force,
Ore full-ear'd Corn, or Torrents raging course
Bears down th'opposing Oaks, the fields destroys
And mocks the Plough-mans toil, th'unlookt for noise
From neighb'ring hills, th'amazed Shepherd hears;
Such my surprise, and such their rage appears,
First fell thy house Ucalegon, then thine
Deiphobus, Sigæan Seas did shine
Bright with Troys flames, the Trumpets dreadful sound,
The louder groans of dying men confound.
Give me my arms, I cry'd, resolv'd to throw
My self 'mongst any that oppos'd the Foe:
Rage, anger, and Despair at once suggest
That of all Deaths, to die in Arms was best.
The first I met was Panthus, Phœbus Priest,
Who scaping with his Gods and Reliques fled,
And towards the shore his little Grandchild led;
Panthus, what hope remains? what force? what place
Made good? but sighing, he replies (alas)
Trojans we were, and mighty Ilium was;
But the last period and fatal hour
Of Troy is come: Our Glory and our Power
Incensed Jove transfers to Grecian hands,
The foe within, the burning Town commands;
And (like a smother'd fire) an unseen force
Breaks from the bowels of the fatal Horse:
Insulting Synon flings about the flame,
And thousands more than e're from Argos came
Possess the Gates, the Passes and the Streets,
And these the sword oretakes, & those it meets,
The Guard nor fights nor flies, Their fate so near
At once suspends their Courage and their Fear.
Thus by the Gods, and by Atrides words
Inspir'd, I make my way through fire, through swords,
Where Noises, Tumults, Out-cries and Alarms
I heard, first Iphitus renown'd for Arms
We meet, who knew us (for the Moon did shine)
Then Ripheus, Hippanis and Dymas joyn
Their force, and young Choræbus Mygdons son,
Who, by the Love of fair Cassandra, won,
Arriv'd but lately in her Fathers Ayd
Unhappy, whom the Threats could not disswade
Of his Prophetick Spouse;
Whom, when I saw, yet daring to maintain
The fight, I said, Brave Spirits (but in vain)
Are you resolv'd to follow one who dares
Tempt all extreams? The state of Our affairs
You see: The Gods have left us, by whose aid
Our Empire stood; nor can the flame be staid:
Then let us fall amidst Our Foes; this one
Relief the vanquisht have, to hope for none.
Then re-inforc'd, as in a stormy night
Wolves urged by their raging appetite
Forrage for prey, which their neglected young
With greedy jaws expect, ev'n so among
Foes, Fire and Swords, t'assured death we pass,
Darkness our Guide, Despair our Leader was.
Who can relate that Evenings woes and spoils,
Or can his tears proportion to our Toils!
The City, which so long had flourisht, falls;
Death triumphs o're the Houses, Temples, Walls
Nor only on the Trojans fell this doom,
Their hearts at last the vanquish'd re-assume;
And now the Victors fall, on all sides, fears,
Groans and pale Death in all her shapes appears:
Androgeus first with his whole Troop was cast
Upon us, with civility misplac't;
Thus greeting us you lose by your delay,
Your share both of the honour and the prey,
Others the spoils of burning Troy convey
Back to those ships, which you but now forsake.
We making no return; his sad mistake
Too late he finds: As when an unseen Snake
A Travellers unwary foot hath prest,
Who trembling starts, when the Snakes azure Crest,
Swoln with his rising Anger, he espies,
So from our view surpriz'd Androgeus flies.
But here an easie victory we meet:
Fear binds their hands, and ignorance their feet,
Whilst Fortune, our first Enterprize, did aid,
Encourag'd with success, Choræbus said,
O Friends, we now by better Fates are led,
And the fair Path they lead us, let us tread.
First change your Arms, and their distinctions bear;
The same, in foes, Deceit and Vertue are.
Then of his Arms, Androgeus he divests,
His Sword, his Shield he takes, and plumed Crests,
Then Ripheus, Dymas, and the rest, All glad
Of the occasion, in fresh spoils are clad.
Thus mixt, with Greeks, as if their Fortune still
Follow'd their swords, we fight, pursue, and kill.
Some re-ascend the Horse, and he whose sides
Let forth the valiant, now, the Coward hides.
Some, to their safer Guard, their Ships, retire;
But vain's that hope, 'gainst which the Gods conspire:
Behold the Royal Virgin, The Divine
Cassandra, from Minerva's fatal shrine
Dragg'd by the hair, casting tow'rds heaven in vain,
Her Eyes; for Cords her tender hands did strain:
Choræbus at the spectacle enrag'd,
Flies in amidst the foes: we thus engag'd,
To second him, amongst the thickest ran;
Here first our ruine from our friends began,
Who from the Temples Battlements a shower
Of Darts and Arrows on our heads did powr:
They, us for Greeks, and now the Greeks (who knew
Cassandra's rescue) us for Trojans slew.
Then from all parts Ulysses, Ajax, then,
And then th'Atridæ rally all their men;
As winds, that meet from several Coasts, contest,
Their prisons being broke, the South and West,
And Eurus on his winged Coursers born
Triumphing in their speed, the woods are torn,
And chafing Nereus with his Trident throws
The billows from their bottom; Then all those
Who in the dark our fury did escape,
Returning, know our borrowed Arms and shape
And diff'ring Dialect: Then their numbers swell
And grow upon us; first Choræbus fell
Before Minerva's Altar, next did bleed
Just Ripheus, whom no Trojan did exceed
In virtue, yet the Gods his fate decreed.
Then Hippanis and Dymas wounded by
Their friends; nor thee Panthus thy Piety,
Nor consecrated Mitre, from the same
Ill fate could save; My Countreys funeral flame
And Troys cold ashes I attest, and call
To witness for my self, That in their fall
No Foes, no Death, nor Danger I declin'd
Did, and deserv'd no less, my Fate to find.
Now Iphitus with me, and Pelias
Slowly retire, the one retarded was
By feeble Age, the other by a wound,
To Court the Cry directs us, where We found
Th'Assault so hot, as if 'twere only there,
And all the rest secure from foes or fear:
The Greeks the Gates approach'd, their Targets cast,
Over their heads, some scaling ladders plac't
Against the walls, the rest the steps ascend,
And with their shields on their left Arms defend
Arrows and darts, and with their right hold fast
The Battlement; on them the Trojans cast
Stones, Rafters, Pillars, Beams, such Arms as these,
Now hopeless, for their last defence they seize.
The gilded Roofs, the marks of ancient state
They tumble down, and now against the Gate
Of th'Inner Court their growing force they bring,
Now was Our last effort to save the King.
Relieve the fainting, and succeed the dead.
A Private Gallery 'twixt th'appartments led,
Not to the Foe yet known, or not observ'd,
(The way for Hectors hapless Wife reserv'd,
When to the aged King, her little son
She would present) Through this we pass and run
Up to the highest Battlement, from whence
The Trojans threw their darts without offence.
A Tower so high, it seem'd to reach the sky,
Stood on the Roof, from whence we could descry
All Ilium—both the Camps, the Grecian Fleet;
This, where the Beams upon the Columns meet,
We loosen, which like Thunder from the Cloud
Breaks on their heads, as sudden and as loud.
But others still succeed: mean time, nor stones
Nor any kind of weapons cease.
Before the Gate in gilded Armour, shone
Young Pyrrhus, like a Snake his skin new grown,
Who fed on poys'nous herbs, all winter lay
Under the ground, and now reviews the day
Fresh in his new apparel, proud and young,
Rowls up his Back, and brandishes his tongue,
And lifts his scaly breast against the Sun;
With him his Fathers Squire, Antomedon
And Periphas who drove his winged steeds,
Enter the Court; whom all the youth succeeds
Of Scyros Isle, who flaming firebrands flung
Up to the roof, Pyrrhus himself among
The formost with an Axe an entrance hews
Through beams of solid Oak, then freely views
The Chambers, Galleries, and Rooms of State,
Where Priam and the ancient Monarchs sate.
At the first Gate an Armed Guard appears;
But th'Inner Court with horror, noise and tears
Confus'dly fill'd, the womens shrieks and cries
The Arched Vaults re-eccho to the skies;
Sad Matrons wandring through the spacious Rooms
Embrace and kiss the Posts: Then Pyrrhus comes
Full of his Father, neither Men nor Walls
His force sustain, the torn Port-cullis falls,
Then from the hinge, their strokes the Gates divorce,
And where the way they cannot find, they force:
Not with such rage a Swelling Torrent flows
Above his banks, th'opposing Dams orethrows,
Depopulates the Fields, the Cattel, Sheep,
Shepherds, and folds the foaming Surges sweep.
And now between two sad extreams I stood,
Here Pyrrhus and th'Atridæ drunk with blood,
There th'hapless Queen amongst an hundred Dames,
And Priam quenching from his wounds those flames
Which his own hands had on the Altar laid:
Then they the secret Cabinets invade,
Where stood the Fifty Nuptial Beds, the hopes
Of that great Race, the Golden Posts whose tops
Old hostile spoils adorn'd, demolisht lay,
Or to the foe, or to the fire a Prey.
Now Priams fate perhaps you may enquire,
Seeing his Empire lost, his Troy on fire,
And his own Palace by the Greeks possest,
Arms, long disus'd, his trembling limbs invest;
Thus on his foes he throws himself alone,
Not for their Fate, but to provoke his own:
There stood an Altar open to the view
Of Heaven, near which an aged Lawrel grew,
Whose shady arms the houshold Gods embrac'd;
Before whose feet the Queen her self had cast,
With all her daughters, and the Trojan wives,
As Doves whom an approaching tempest drives
And frights into one flock; But having spy'd
Old Priam clad in youthful Arms, she cry'd,
Alas my wretched husband, what pretence
To bear those Arms, and in them what defence?
Such aid such times require not, when again
If Hector were alive, he liv'd in vain;
Or here We shall a Sanctuary find,
Or as in life, we shall in death be joyn'd.
Then weeping, with kind force held & embrac'd
And on the sacred seat the King she plac'd;
Mean while Polites one of Priams sons
Flying the rage of bloudy Pyrrhus, runs
Through foes & swords, & ranges all the Court
And empty Galleries, amaz'd and hurt,
Pyrrhus pursues him, now oretakes, now kills,
And his last blood in Priams presence spills.
The King (though him so many deaths inclose)
Nor fear, nor grief, but Indignation shows;
The Gods requite thee (if within the care
Of those above th'affairs of mortals are)
Whose fury on the son but lost had been,
Had not his Parents Eyes his murder seen:
Not That Achilles (whom thou feign'st to be
Thy Father) so inhumane was to me;
He blusht, when I the rights of Arms implor'd;
To me my Hector, me to Troy restor'd:
This said, his feeble Arm a Javelin flung,
Which on the sounding shield, scarce entring, rung.
Then Pyrrhus; go a messenger to Hell
Of my black deeds, and to my Father tell
The Acts of his degenerate Race. So through
His Sons warm bloud, the trembling King he drew
To th'Altar; in his hair one hand he wreaths;
His sword, the other in his bosom sheaths.
Thus fell the King, who yet surviv'd the State,
With such a signal and peculiar Fate.
Under so vast a ruine not a Grave,
Nor in such flames a funeral fire to have:
He, whom such Titles swell'd, such Power made proud
To whom the Scepters of all Asia bow'd,
On the cold earth lies th'unregarded King,
A headless Carkass, and a nameless Thing.

SARPEDON'S SPEECH TO GLAUCUS IN THE 12TH OF HOMER

Thus to Glaucus spake
Divine Sarpedon, since he did not find
Others as great in Place, as great in Mind.
Above the rest, why is our Pomp, our Power?
Our flocks, our herds, and our possessions more?
Why all the Tributes Land and Sea affords
Heap'd in great Chargers, load our sumptuous boards?
Our chearful Guests carowse the sparkling tears
Of the rich Grape, whilst Musick charms their ears.
Why as we pass, do those on Xanthus shore,
As Gods behold us, and as Gods adore?
But that as well in danger, as degree,
We stand the first; that when our Lycians see
Our brave examples, they admiring say,
Behold our Gallant Leaders! These are They
Deserve the Greatness; and un-envied stand:
Since what they act, transcends what they command.
Could the declining of this Fate (oh friend)
Our Date to Immortality extend?
Or if Death sought not them, who seek not Death,
Would I advance? Or should my vainer breath
With such a Glorious Folly thee inspire?
But since with Fortune Nature doth conspire,
Since Age, Disease, or some less noble End,
Though not less certain, doth our days attend;
Since 'tis decreed, and to this period lead,
A thousand ways the noblest path we'll tread;
And bravely on, till they, or we, or all,
A common Sacrifice to Honour fall.

OUT OF AN EPIGRAM OF MARTIAL

THE PASSION OF DIDO FOR ÆNEAS

Having at large declar'd Joves Ambassy,
Cyllenius from Æneas straight doth flye;
He loth to disobey the Gods command,
Nor willing to forsake this pleasant Land,
Asham'd the kind Eliza to deceive,
But more afraid to take a solemn leave;
He many waies his labouring thoughts revolves,
But fear o're-coming shame, at last resolves
(Instructed by the God of Thieves) to steal
Himself away, and his escape conceal.
He calls his Captains, bids them Rigg the Fleet,
That at the Port they privately should meet;
And some dissembled colour to project,
That Dido should not their design suspect;
But all in vain he did his Plot disguise:
No Art a watchful Lover can surprize.
She the first motion finds; Love though most sure,
Yet always to itself seems unsecure;
That wicked Fame which their first Love proclaim'd,
Fore-tells the end; The Queen with rage inflam'd
Thus greets him, thou dissembler would'st thou flye
Out of my arms by stealth perfidiously?
Could not the hand I plighted, nor the Love,
Nor thee the Fate of dying Dido move?
And in the depth of Winter in the night,
Dark as thy black designs to take thy flight,
To plow the raging Seas to Coasts unknown,
The Kingdom thou pretend'st to not thine own;
Were Troy restor'd, thou shouldst mistrust a wind
False as they Vows, and as thy heart unkind.
Fly'st thou from me? by these dear drops of brine
I thee adjure, by that right hand of thine,
By our Espousals, by our Marriage-bed,
If all my kindness ought have merited;
If ever I stood fair in thy esteem,
From ruine, me, and my lost house redeem.
Cannot my Prayers a free acceptance find?
Nor my Tears soften an obdurate mind?
My Fame of Chastity, by which the Skies
I reacht before, by thee extinguisht dies;
Into my Borders now Iarbus falls,
And my revengeful Brother scales my walls;
The wild Numidians will advantage take,
For thee both Tyre and Carthage me forsake.
Hadst thou before thy flight but left with me
A young Æneas, who resembling thee,
Might in my sight have sported, I had then
Not wholly lost, nor quite deserted been;
By thee no more my Husband, but my Guest,
Betray'd to mischiefs, of which death's the least.
With fixed looks he stands, and in his Breast
By Joves command his struggling care supprest;
Great Queen, your favours and deserts so great,
Though numberless, I never shall forget;
No time, until my self I have forgot;
Out of my heart Eliza's name shall blot:
But my unwilling flight the Gods inforce,
And that must justifie our sad Divorce;
Since I must you forsake, would Fate permit,
To my desires I might my fortune fit;
Troy to her Ancient Splendour I would raise,
And where I first began, would end my days;
But since the Lycian Lotts, and Delphick God
Have destin'd Italy for our abode;
Since you proud Carthage (fled from Tyre) enjoy,
Why should not Latium us receive from Troy?
As for my Son, my Fathers angry Ghost,
Tells me his hopes by my delays are crost,
And mighty Joves Ambassadour appear'd
With the same message, whom I saw and heard;
We both are griev'd when you or I complain,
But much the more, when all complaints are vain;
I call to witness all the Gods and thy
Beloved head, the Coast of Italy
Against my will I seek.
Whilst thus he speaks, she rowls her sparkling eyes,
Surveys him round, and thus incens'd replies;
Thy Mother was no Goddess, nor thy stock
From Dardanus, but in some horrid rock,
Perfidious wretch, rough Caucasus thee bred,
And with their Milk Hircanian Tygers fed.
Dissimulation I shall now forget,
And my reserves of rage in order set;
Could all my Prayers and soft Entreaties force
Sighs from his Breast, or from his look remorse.
Where shall I first complain? can Mighty Jove
Or Juno such Impieties approve?
The just Astræa sure is fled to Hell,
Nor more in Earth, nor Heaven it self will dwell.
Oh Faith! him on my Coasts by Tempest cast,
Receiving madly, on my Throne I plac'd;
His Men from Famine, and his Fleet from Fire
I rescu'd: now the Lycian Lotts conspire
With Phœbus; now Joves Envoyé through the Air
Brings dismal tydings, as if such low care
Could reach their thoughts, or their repose disturb;
Thou art a false Impostor, and a Fourbe;
Go, go, pursue thy Kingdom through the Main,
I hope if Heaven her Justice still retain,
Thou shalt be wrackt, or cast upon some rock,
Where thou the name of Dido shalt invoke;
I'le follow thee in Funeral flames, when dead
My Ghost shall thee attend at Board and Bed,
And when the Gods on thee their vengeance show,
That welcom news shall comfort me below.
This saying, from his hated sight she fled;
Conducted by her Damsels to her bed;
Yet restless she arose, and looking out,
Beholds the Fleet, and hears the Seamen shout:
When great Æneas pass'd before the Guard,
To make a view how all things were prepar'd.
Ah cruel Love! to what dost thou inforce
Poor Mortal Breasts? again she hath recourse
To Tears, and Prayers, again she feels the smart
Of a fresh wound from his tyrannick Dart.
That she no ways nor means may leave untry'd,
Thus to her Sister she her self apply'd:
Dear Sister, my resentment had not been
So moving, if this Fate I had fore-seen;
Therefore to me this last kind office do,
Thou hast some interest in our scornful Foe,
He trusts to thee the Counsels of his mind,
Thou his soft hours, and free access canst find;
Tell him I sent not to the Ilian Coast
My Fleet to aid the Greeks; his Fathers Ghost
I never did disturb; ask him to lend
To this the last request that I shall send,
A gentle Ear; I wish that he may find
A happy passage, and a prosp'rous wind.
That contract I not plead, which he betray'd,
Nor that his promis'd Conquest be delay'd;
All that I ask, is but a short Reprieve,
Till I forget to love, and learn to grieve;
Some pause and respite only I require,
Till with my tears I shall have quencht my fire.
If thy address can but obtain one day
Or two, my Death that service shall repay.
Thus she intreats; such messages with tears
Condoling Anne to him, and from him bears;
But him no Prayers, no Arguments can move,
The Fates resist, his Ears are stopt by Jove:
As when fierce Northern blasts from th'Alpes descend,
From his firm roots with struggling gusts to rend
An aged sturdy Oak, the ratling sound
Grows loud, with leaves and scatter'd arms the ground
Is over-layd; yet he stands fixt, as high
As his proud head is raised towards the Sky,
So low towards Hell his roots descend. With Pray'rs
And Tears the Hero thus assail'd, great cares
He smothers in his Breast, yet keeps his Post,
All their addresses and their labour lost.
Then she deceives her Sister with a smile,
Anne in the Inner Court erects a Pile;
Thereon his Arms and once lov'd Portraict lay,
Thither our fatal Marriage-bed convey;
All cursed Monuments of him with fire
We must abolish (so the Gods require)
She gives her credit, for no worse effect
Then from Sichæus death she did suspect,
And her commands obeys.
Aurora now had left Tithonus bed,
And o're the world her blushing Raies did spread;
The Queen beheld as soon as day appear'd,
The Navy under Sail, the Haven clear'd;
Thrice with her hand her Naked Breast she knocks,
And from her forehead tears her Golden Locks.
O Jove, she cry'd, and shall he thus delude
Me and my Realm! why is he not pursu'd?
Arm, Arm, she cry'd, and let our Tyrians board
With ours his Fleet, and carry Fire and Sword;
Leave nothing unattempted to destroy
That perjur'd Race, then let us dye with joy;
What if the event of War uncertain were,
Nor death, nor danger, can the desperate fear?
But oh too late! this thing I should have done,
When first I plac'd the Traytor on my Throne.
Behold the Faith of him who sav'd from fire
His honour'd houshold gods, his Aged Sire
His Pious shoulders from Troy's Flames did bear;
Why did I not his Carcase piece-meal tear
And cast it in the Sea? why not destroy
All his Companions and beloved Boy
Ascanius? and his tender limbs have drest,
And made the Father on the Son to Feast?
Thou Sun, whose lustre all things here below
Surveys; and Juno conscious of my woe;
Revengeful Furies, and Queen Hecate,
Receive and grant my prayer! if he the Sea
Must needs escape, and reach th'Ausonian land,
If Jove decree it, Jove's decree must stand;
When landed, may he be with arms opprest
By his rebelling people, be distrest
By exile from his Country, be divorc'd
From young Ascanius sight, and be enforc'd
To implore Forrein aids, and lose his Friends
By violent and undeserved ends:
When to conditions of unequal Peace
He shall submit, then may he not possess
Kingdom nor Life, and find his Funeral
I'th' Sands, when he before his day shall fall:
And ye oh Tyrians with immortal hate
Pursue his race, this service dedicate
To my deplored ashes; let there be
'Twixt us and them no League nor Amity;
May from my bones a new Achilles rise,
That shall infest the Trojan Colonies
With Fire, and Sword, and Famine, when at length
Time to our great attempts contributes strength;
Our Seas, our Shores, our Armies theirs oppose,
And may our Children be for ever Foes.
A ghastly paleness deaths approach portends,
Then trembling she the fatal pile ascends;
Viewing the Trojan relicks, she unsheath'd
Æneas Sword, not for that use bequeath'd:
Then on the guilty bed she gently lays
Her self, and softly thus lamenting prays:
Dear Reliques whilst that Gods and Fates gave leave,
Free me from care, and my glad soul receive;
That date which fortune gave I now must end,
And to the shades a noble Ghost descend;
Sichæus blood by his false Brother spilt,
I have reveng'd, and a proud City built;
Happy, alas! too happy I had liv'd,
Had not the Trojan on my Coast arriv'd;
But shall I dye without revenge? yet dye,
Thus, thus with joy to thy Sichæus flye.
My conscious Foe my Funeral fire shall view
From Sea, and may that Omen him pursue.
Her fainting hand let fall the Sword besmear'd
With blood, and then the Mortal wound appear'd;
Through all the Court the fright and clamours rise,
Which the whole City fills with fears and cries,
As loud as if her Carthage, or old Tyre
The Foe had entred, and had set on Fire:
Amazed Anne with speed ascends the stairs,
And in her arms her dying Sister rears:
Did you for this, your self, and me beguile
For such an end did I erect this Pile?
Did you so much despise me, in this Fate
My self with you not to associate?
Your self and me, alas! this fatal wound
The Senate, and the People, doth confound.
I'le wash her Wound with Tears, and at her Death,
My Lips from hers shall draw her parting Breath.
Then with her Vest the Wound she wipes and dries;
Thrice with her Arm the Queen attempts to rise,
But her strength failing, falls into a swound,
Life's last efforts yet striving with her Wound;
Thrice on her Bed she turns, with wandring sight
Seeking, she groans when she beheld the light;
Then Juno pitying her disastrous Fate,
Sends Iris down, her Pangs to Mitigate,
(Since if we fall before th'appointed day,
Nature and Death continue long their Fray)
Iris Descends; This Fatal lock (says she)
To Pluto I bequeath, and set thee free,
Then clips her Hair, cold Numness strait bereaves
Her Corps of sense, and th'Ayr her Soul receives.

OF PRUDENCE. OF JUSTICE

CATO MAJOR

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203

OF OLD-AGE

Cato, Scipio, Lælius.
Scipio to Cato.
Cat.
What you urge (Scipio) from right reason flows,
All parts of Age seem burthensome to those,
Who Virtue's, and true Wisdom's happiness
Cannot discern, but they who those possess
In what's impos'd by Nature, find no grief,
Of which our Age is (next our Death) the chief,
Which though all equally desire to' obtain,
Yet when they have obtain'd it, they complain;
Such our inconstancies, and follies are,
We say it steals upon us unaware:
Our want of reas'ning these false measures makes,
Youth runs to Age, as Childhood Youth o'retakes;
How much more grievous would our lives appear
To reach th'eight hundreth, then the eightieth year:
Of what, in that long space of time hath past,
To foolish Age will no remembrance last,
My Ages conduct when you seem to' admire,
(Which that it may deserve, I much desire)
'Tis my first rule, on Nature, as my Guide
Appointed by the Gods, I have rely'de,
And Nature, (which all Acts of life designes)
Not like ill Poets, in the last declines;
But some one part must be the last of all,
Which like ripe fruits, must either rot, or fall,
And this from Nature must be gently born,
Else her (as Giants did the Gods) we scorn.

Læl.
But Sir, 'tis Scipio's, and my desire,
Since to long life we gladly would aspire,
That from your grave Instructions we might hear,
How we, like you, might this great burthen bear.

Cat.
This I resolv'd before, but now shall do
With great delight, since 'tis requir'd by you.

Læl.
If to your self it will not tedious prove,
Nothing in us a greater joy can move,
That as old Travellers the young instruct,
Your long, our short experience may conduct.

Cat.
'Tis true, (as the old Proverb doth relate)
Equals with equals often congregate.
Two Consuls (who in years my equals were,)
When Senators, lamenting I did hear,
That Age from them had all their pleasures torn,
And them their former suppliants now scorn,
They, what is not to be accus'd, accuse,
Not others, but themselves their age abuse,
Else this might me concern, and all my friends,
Whose cheerful Age, with Honour, Youth attends,
Joy'd that from pleasure's slavery they are free,
And all respects due to their age they see,
In its true colours, this complaint appears
The ill effect of Manners, not of years,
For on their life no grievous burthen lies,
Who are well-natur'd, temperate, and wise:
But an inhumane, and ill-temper'd mind
Not any easie part in life can find.

Læl.
This I believe, yet others may dispute,
Their age (as yours) can never bear such fruit,
Of Honour, Wealth, and Power, to make them sweet,
Not every one such happiness can meet.

Cat.
Some weight your argument (my Lælius) bears,
But not so much, as at first sight appears,
This answer by Themistocles was made,
(When a Seriphian thus did him upbraid,
You those great Honours to your Country owe,
Not to your self) had I at Seripho
Been born, such honour I had never seen,
Nor you, if an Athenian you had been:
So Age, cloath'd in undecent povertie,
To the most prudent cannot easie be,
But to a fool, the greater his estate,
The more uneasie is his Age's weight.
Age's chief arts, and arms, are to grow wise,
Virtue to know, and known to exercise,
All just returns to Age then Virtue makes,
Nor her in her extremity forsakes,
The sweetest Cordial we receive at last
Is conscience of our virtuous actions past.
I, (when a youth) with reverence did look
On Quintus Fabius, who Tarentum took,
Yet in his age such cheerfulness was seen,
As if his years and mine had equal been,
His Gravity was mixt with Gentleness,
Nor had his Age made his good humour less,
Then was he well in years (the same that he
Was Consul, that of my Nativity)
(A Stripling then) in his fourth Consulate
On him at Capua I in armes did wait,
I five years after at Tarentum wan
The Quæstorship, and then our love began,
And four years after, when I Prætor was
He Pleaded, and the Cincian Law did pass.
With youthful diligence he us'd to' ingage,
Yet with the temperate Arts of patient Age
He breaks fierce Hannibal's insulting heats;
Of which exploit thus our friend Ennius treats,
He by delay restor'd the Common-wealth,
Nor preferr'd Rumour before publick Health.

THE ARGUMENT

When I reflect on Age, I find there are
Four Causes, which its Misery declare.
1. Because our Bodies Strength it much impairs;
2. That it takes off our Minds from great Affairs:
3. Next, That our Sense of Pleasures it deprives:
4. Last, That approaching Death attends our Lives.
Of all these several Causes I'le discourse,
And then of each, in Order, weigh the force.

1. THE FIRST PART

The Old from such affairs is only freed,
Which vigourous youth, and strength of body need.
But to more high affairs our age is lent,
Most properly when heats of youth are spent.
Did Fabius, and your Father Scipio
(Whose Daughter my Son married) nothing do?
Fabricii, Coruncani, Curii;
Whose courage, counsel, and authority,
The Roman Common-wealth, restor'd, did boast,
Nor Appius, with whose strength his sight was lost,
Who when the Senate was to Peace inclin'd
With Pyrrhus, shew'd his reason was not blind.
Whither's our Courage and our Wisdom come?
When Rome it self conspires the fate of Rome?
The rest with ancient gravity and skill
He spake (for his Oration's extant still)
'Tis seventeen years since he had Consul been
The second time, and there were ten between;
Therefore their Argument's of little force,
Who Age from great Imployments would divorce.
As in a Ship some climb the Shrouds, to' unfold
The Sails, some sweep the Deck, some pump the Hold;
Whil'st he that guides the Helm, imploys his skill,
And gives the Law to them by sitting still.
Great actions less from Courage, strength, and speed,
Then from wise Counsels and Commands proceed;
Those Arts Age wants not, which to Age belong,
Not heat, but cold experience makes us strong,
A Consul, Tribune, General, I have been,
All sorts of war I have past through, and seen
And now grown old, I seem to' abandon it,
Yet to the Senate I prescribe what's fit.
I every day 'gainst Carthage war proclaim,
(For Rome's destruction hath been long her aim)
Nor shall I cease till I her ruine see,
Which Triumph may the Gods designe for thee;
That Scipio may revenge his Grandsire's Ghost,
Whose life at Cannæ with great Honour lost
Is on Record, nor had he wearied been
With Age, if he an hundred years had seen,
He had not us'd Excursions, Spears, or Darts,
But Counsel, Order, and such aged Arts,
Which, if our Ancestors had not retain'd,
The Senate's Name, our Council had not gain'd.
The Spartans to their highest Magistrate,
The Name of Elder did appropriate:
Therefore his fame for ever shall remain,
How gallantly Tarentum he did gain,
With vigilant Conduct, when that sharp reply
He gave to Salinator, I stood by,
Who to the Castle fled, the Town being lost,
Yet he to Maximus did vainly boast,
'Twas by my means Tarentum you obtain'd;
'Tis true, had you not lost, I had not gain'd;
And as much Honour on his Gown did wait,
As on his Arms, in his Fifth Consulate,
When his Colleague Carvilius stept aside,
The Tribune of the People would divide
To them the Gallick, and the Picene Field,
Against the Senate's will, he will not yield,
When being angry, boldly he declares
Those things were acted under happy starres,
From which the Commonwealth found good effects,
But othewise, they came from bad Aspects.
Many great things of Fabius I could tell,
But his Son's death did all the rest excell;
(His Gallant Son, though young, had Consul been)
His Funeral Oration I have seen
Often, and when on that I turn my eyes,
I all the Old Philosophers dispise,
Though he in all the Peoples eyes seem'd great,
Yet greater he appear'd in his retreat;
When feasting with his private friends at home,
Such Counsel, such Discourse from him did come,
Such Science in his Art of Augury,
No Roman ever was more learn'd than he;
Knowledge of all things present, and to come,
Remembring all the Wars of ancient Rome,
Nor only these, but all the World's beside;
Dying in extreme age, I prophesi'd
That which is come to pass, and did discern
From his Survivors I could nothing learn.
This long discourse was but to let you see,
That his long life could not uneasie be.
Few like the Fabii or the Scipio's are
Takers of Cities, Conquerors in War,
Yet others to like happy Age arrive,
Who modest, quiet, and with vertue live:
Thus Plato writing his Philosophy,
With Honour after ninety years did die.
The Athenian Story writ at ninety four
By Isocrates, who yet liv'd five years more,
His Master Gorgias at the hundredth year
And seventh, not his studies did forbear,
And askt, why he no sooner left the Stage,
Said, he saw nothing to accuse Old Age.
None but the foolish, who their lives abuse
Age, of their own Mistakes and Crimes accuse,
All Commonwealths (as by Record is seen)
As by Age preserv'd, by Youth destroy'd have been.
When the Tragedian Nævius did demand,
Why did your Common-wealth no longer stand?
'Twas answer'd, that their Senators were new,
Foolish, and young, and such as nothing knew;
Nature to Youth hot rashness doth dispence,
But with cold prudence Age doth recompence;
But Age ('tis said) will memory decay,
So (if it be not exercis'd) it may;
Or, if by Nature it be dull, and slow,
Themistocles (when ag'd) the Names did know
Of all th'Athenians, and none grow so old,
Not to remember where they hid their Gold.
From Age such Art of Memory we learn,
To forget nothing, which is our concern.
Their interest no Priest, nor Sorcerer
Forgets, nor Lawyer, nor Philosopher;
No understanding, Memory can want,
Where Wisdome studious industry doth plant.
Nor does it only in the active live,
But in the quiet and contemplative;
When Sophocles (who Plays, when aged wrote)
Was by his Sons before the Judges brought,
Because he pay'd the Muses such respect,
His Fortune, Wife, and Children to neglect,
Almost condemn'd, he mov'd the Judges thus,
Hear, but instead of me, my Oedipus,
The Judges hearing with applause, at th'end,
Freed him, and said no Fool such Lines had penn'd.
What Poets, and what Orators can I
Recount? What Princes in Philosophy?
Whose constant Studies with their Age did strive,
Nor did they those, though those did them survive.
Old Husbandmen I at Sabinium know,
Who for another year dig, plough, and sow.
For never any man was yet so old,
But hop'd his life one Winter more might hold.
Cæcilius vainly said, each day we spend
Discovers something, which must needs offend,
But sometimes Age may pleasant things behold,
And nothing that offends: He should have told
This not to Age, but Youth, who oftner see
What not alone offends, but hurts, then wee:
That, I in him, which he in Age condemn'd,
That us it renders odious, and contemn'd.
He knew not vertue, if he thought this, truth;
For Youth delights in Age, and Age in Youth.
What to the Old can greater pleasure be,
Then hopeful, and ingenious Youth to see?
When they with rev'rence follow where we lead,
And in strait paths by our directions tread;
And even my conversation here I see,
As well receiv'd by you, as yours by me.
'Tis dis-ingenious to accuse our Age
Of Idleness, who all our pow'rs ingage
In the same Studies, the same Course to hold;
Nor think our reason for new Arts too old.
Solon the Sage his Progress never ceast,
But still his Learning with his dayes increast;
And I with the same greediness did seek
As (water when I thirst) to swallow Greek,
Which I did only learn, that I might know
Those great Examples, which I follow now:
And I have heard that Socrates the wise
Learn'd on the Lute for his last exercise,
Though many of the Antients did the same,
To improve Knowledge was my only aime.

2. THE SECOND PART

Now int' our second grievance I must break,
That loss of strength makes understanding weak.
I grieve no more my youthful strength to want,
Then young, that of a Bull or Elephant;
Then with that force content, which Nature gave,
Nor am I now displeas'd with what I have.
When the young Wrestlers at their sport grew warm,
Old Milo wept, to see his naked arm;
And cry'd, 'twas dead, Trifler thine heart, and head,
And all that's in them (not thy arme) are dead;
This folly every looker on derides,
To glory only in thy armes and sides.
Our gallant Ancestors let fall no tears,
Their strength decreasing by increasing years;
But they advanc'd in Wisdom ev'ry hour,
And made the Common-wealth advance in power.
But Orators may grieve, for in their sides
Rather than heads, their faculty abides;
Yet I have heard old voices loud and clear,
And still my own sometimes the Senate hear.
When th'Old with smooth and gentle voices plead,
They by the ear their well-pleas'd Audience lead:
Which, if I had not strength enough to do,
I could (my Lælius and my Scipio)
What's to be done, or not be done, instruct,
And to the Maximes of good life conduct.
Cneius and Publius Scipio, and (that man
Of men) your Grandsire the great Affrican,
Were joyful, when the flower of Noble blood
Crowded their Dwellings, and attending stood,
Like Oracles their Counsels to receive,
How in their Progress they should act, and live.
And they whose high examples youth obeys,
Are not despised, though their strength decays.
And those decayes (to speak the naked truth,
Though the defects of Age) were Crimes of Youth.
Intemperate Youth (by sad experience found)
Ends in an Age imperfect, and unsound.
Cyrus, though ag'd (if Xenophon say true)
Lucius Metellus (whom when young I knew)
Who held (after his Second Consulate)
Twenty two years the high Pontificate;
Neither of those in body, or in mind
Before their death the least decay did find.
I speak not of my self, though none deny
To age (to praise their youth) the liberty:
Such an unwasted strength I cannot boast,
Yet now my years are eighty four almost:
And though from what it was my strength is far,
Both in the first and second Punick war,
Nor at Thermopylæ, under Glabrio,
Nor when I Consul into Spain did go;
But yet I feel no weakness, nor hath length
Of Winters quite enervated my strength;
And I, my Guest, my Client, or my friend,
Still in the Courts of Justice can defend:
Neither must I that Proverb's truth allow,
Who would be Antient, must be early so.
I would be youthful still, and find no need
To appear old, till I was so indeed.
And yet you see my hours not idle are,
Though with your strength I cannot mine compare.
Yet this Centurion's doth yours surmount,
Not therefore him the better man I count.
Milo when entring the Olympick Game,
With a huge Oxe upon his shoulder came.
Would you the force of Milo's body find?
Rather than of Pythagoras's mind?
The force which Nature gives with care retain,
But when decay'd, 'tis folly to complain;
In age to wish for youth is full as vain,
As for a youth to turn a child again.
Simple, and certain Nature's wayes appear,
As she sets forth the seasons of the year.
So in all parts of life we find her truth,
Weakness to childhood, rashness to our youth:
To elder years to be discreet and grave,
Then to old age maturity she gave.
(Scipio) you know, how Masinissa bears
His Kingly Port, at more than ninety years;
When marching with his foot, he walks till night;
When with his horse, he never will alight;
Though cold, or wet, his head is alwayes bare;
So hot, so dry, his aged members are.
You see how Exercise and Temperance
Even to old years a youthful strength advance.
Our Law (because from age our strength retires)
No duty which belongs to strength requires.
But age doth many men so feeble make,
That they no great design can undertake;
Yet, that to age not singly is appli'd,
But to all man's infirmities beside.
That Scipio (who adopted you) did fall
Into such pains, he had no health at all;
Who else had equall'd Affricanus parts,
Exceeding him in all the Liberal Arts.
Why should those errors then imputed be
To Age alone, from which our youth's not free?
Ev'ry disease of age we may prevent,
Like those of youth, by being diligent.
When sick, such moderate exercise we use,
And diet, as our vital heat renues;
And if our bodies thence refreshment finds,
Then must we also exercise our minds.
If with continual Oyl we not supply
Our Lamp, the Light for want of it will die:
Though bodies may be tir'd with exercise,
No weariness the mind could e're surprise.
Cæcilius, the Comedian, when of Age,
He represents the follies on the Stage;
They're credulous, forgetful, dissolute,
Neither those Crimes to age he doth impute;
But to old men to whom those Crimes belong.
Lust, petulance, rashness, are in youth more strong
Than age, and yet young men those vices hate,
Who vertuous are, discreet, and temperate:
And so what we call dotage, seldome breeds
In bodies, but where Nature sow'd the seeds.
There are five Daughters and four gallant Sons,
In whom the blood of Noble Appius runs,
With a most num'rous Family beside;
When he alone though old, and blind did guide.
Yet his clear-sighted mind was still intent,
And to his business like a Bow stood bent:
By Children, Servants, Neighbours so esteem'd,
He not a Master, but a Monarch seem'd.
All his Relations his admirers were,
His Sons paid reverence, and his Servants fear:
The Order and the antient Discipline
Of Romans, did in all his actions shine.
Authority (kept up) old age secures,
Whose dignity, as long as life endures.
Something of youth I in old age approve,
But more the marks of age in youth I love.
Who this observes, may in his body find
Decrepit age, but never in his mind.
The seven Volumes of my own Reports,
Wherein are all the Pleadings of our Courts.
All noble Monuments of Greece are come
Unto my hands, with those of ancient Rome.
The Pontificial, and the Civil Law,
I study still, and thence Orations draw.
And to confirm my Memory, at night,
What I hear, see, do, by day, I still recite.
These exercises for my thoughts I find,
These labours are the Chariot of my mind.
To serve my friends, the Senate I frequent,
And there what I before digested, vent.
Which only from my strength of mind proceeds,
Not any outward force of body needs:
Which, if I could not do, I should delight
On what I would to ruminate at night.
Who in such practices their minds engage,
Nor fear, nor think of their approaching age;
Which by degrees invisibly doth creep:
Nor do we seem to die, but fall asleep.

3. THE THIRD PART

Now must I draw my forces 'gainst that Host
Of Pleasures, which i'th' Sea of age are lost.
Oh, thou most high transcendent gift of age!
Youth from its folly thus to disengage.
And now receive from me that most divine
Oration of that noble Tarentine,
Which at Tarentum I long since did hear;
When I attended the great Fabius there.
Yee Gods, was it man's Nature? or his Fate?
Betray'd him with sweet pleasures poyson'd bait?
Which he, with all designs of art, or power,
Doth with unbridled appetite devour;
And as all poysons seek the noblest part,
Pleasure possesses first the head and heart;
Intoxicating both, by them, she finds,
And burns the Sacred Temples of our Minds.
Furies, which Reasons divine chains had bound,
(That being broken) all the World confound.
Lust, Murder, Treason, Avarice, and Hell
It self broke loose; in Reason's Pallace dwell,
Truth, Honour, Justice, Temperance, are fled,
All her attendants into darkness led.
But why all this discourse? when pleasure's rage
Hath conquer'd reason, we must treat with age.
Age undermines, and will in time surprize
Her strongest Forts, and cut off all supplies.
And joyn'd in league with strong necessity,
Pleasure must flie, or else by famine die.
Flaminius, whom a Consulship had grac'd
(Then Censor) from the Senate I displac'd;
When he in Gaul a Consul, made a Feast,
A beautious Curtesan did him request,
To see the cutting off a Prisoner's head;
This Crime I could not leave unpunished,
Since by a private villany he stain'd
That Publick Honour, which at Rome he gain'd.
Then to our age (when not to pleasures bent)
This seems an honour, not disparagement.
We, not all pleasures like the Stoicks hate;
But love and seek those which are moderate.
(Though Divine Plato thus of pleasures thought,
They us, with hooks and baits, like fishes caught.)
When Quæstor, to the Gods, in Publick Halls
I was the first, who set up Festivalls.
Not with high tastes our appetites did force,
But fill'd with conversation and discourse;
Which Feasts, Convivial Meetings we did name.
Not like the Antient Greeks, who to their shame,
Call'd it a Compotation, not a Feast;
Declaring the worst part of it the best.
Those Entertainments I did then frequent
Sometimes with youthful heat and merriment:
But now (I thank my age) which gives me ease
From those excesses, yet my self I please
With cheerful talk to entertain my guests,
(Discourses are to age continual feasts)
The love of meat and wine they recompence,
And cheer the mind, as much as those the Sence.
I'm not more pleas'd with gravity among
The ag'd, than to be youthful with the young;
Nor 'gainst all pleasures proclaim open war,
To which, in age, some natural motions are.
And still at my Sabinum I delight
To treat my Neighbours till the depth of night.
But we the sence and gust of pleasure want,
Which youth at full possesses, this I grant;
But age seeks not the things which youth requires,
And no man needs that, which he not desires.
When Sophocles was ask'd if he deny'd
Himself the use of pleasures, he reply'd,
I humbly thank th'Immortal Gods, who me
From that fierce Tyrants insolence set free.
But they whom pressing appetites constrain,
Grieve when they cannot their desires obtain.
Young men the use of pleasure understand,
As of an object new, and neer at hand:
Though this stands more remote from age's sight,
Yet they behold it not without delight:
As ancient souldiers from their duties eas'd,
With sense of Honour and Rewards are pleas'd,
So from ambitious hopes, and lusts releast,
Delighted with it self, our age doth rest.
No part of life's more happy, when with bread
Of ancient Knowledge, and new Learning fed;
All youthful pleasures by degrees must cease,
But those of age even with our years increase.
We love not loaded Boards, and Goblets crown'd,
But free from surfets, our repose is sound.
When old Fabritius to the Samnites went
Ambassadour from Rome to Pyrrhus sent,
He heard a grave Philosopher maintain,
That all the actions of our life were vain;
Which with our sence of pleasure not conspir'd.
Fabritius the Philosopher desir'd,
That he to Pyrrhus would that Maxime teach,
And to the Samnites the same doctrine preach;
Then of their Conquest he should doubt no more,
Whom their own pleasures overcame before.
Now into Rustick matters I must fall,
Which pleasure seems to me the chief of all.
Age no impediment to those can give,
Who wisely by the Rules of Nature live.
Earth (though our Mother) cheerfully obeys,
All the commands her race upon her lays.
For whatsoever from our hand she takes,
Greater, or less, a vast return she makes,
Nor am I only pleas'd with that resource,
But with her wayes, her method, and her force,
The seed her bosom (by the plough made fit)
Receives, where kindly she embraces it,
Which with her genuine warmth, diffus'd, and spread
Sends forth betimes a green, and tender head,
Then gives it motion, life, and nourishment,
Which from the root through nerves and veins are sent,
Streight in a hollow sheath upright it grows,
And, form receiving, doth it self disclose,
Drawn up in rancks, and files, the bearded spikes
Guard it from birds as with a stand of pikes.
When of the Vine I speak, I seem inspir'd,
And with delight, as with her juice am fir'd;
At Nature's God-like power I stand amaz'd,
Which such vast bodies hath from Attoms rais'd.
The kernel of a grape, the fig's small grain
Can cloath a Mountain, and o'reshade a Plaine:
But thou (dear Vine) forbid'st me to be long,
Although thy trunck be neither large, nor strong,
Nor can thy head (not helpt) it self sublime,
Yet like a Serpent, a tall tree can climb,
Whate're thy many fingers can intwine
Proves thy support, and all its strength is thine,
Though Nature gave not legs, it gave thee hands,
By which thy prop the proudest Cedar stands;
As thou hast hands, so hath thy off-spring wings,
And to the highest part of Mortals springs,
But lest thou should'st consume thy wealth in vain,
And starve thy self, to feed a numerous train,
Or like the Bee (sweet as thy blood) design'd
To be destroy'd to propagate his kind,
Lest thy redundant, and superfluous juyce,
Should fading leaves instead of fruits produce,
The Pruner's hand with letting blood must quench
Thy heat, and thy exub'rant parts retrench:
Then from the joynts of thy prolifick stemme
A swelling knot is raised (call'd a gemme)
Whence, in short space it self the cluster shews,
And from earths moisture mixt with Sun-beams grows,
I'th' Spring, like youth, it yields an acid taste,
But Summer doth, like age, the sourness waste,
Then cloath'd with leaves from heat, and cold secure,
Like Virgins, sweet, and beauteous, when mature.
On fruits, flowrs, herbs, and plants, I long could dwell
At once to please my eye, my taste, my smell,
My Walks of trees, all planted by my hand
Like Children of my own begetting stand,
To tell the several nature of each earth,
What fruits from each most properly take birth:
And with what arts to inrich every mold,
The dry to moysten and to warm the cold.
But when we graft, or Buds inoculate,
Nature by Art we nobly meliorate,
As Orpheus Musick wildest beasts did tame,
From the sowr Crab the sweetest Apple came:
The Mother to the Daughter goes to School,
The species changed, doth her laws o're-rule;
Nature her self doth from her self depart,
(Strange transmigration) by the power of Art.
How little things, give law to great? we see
The small Bud captivates the greatest Tree.
Here even the Power Divine we imitate,
And seem not to beget, but to create.
Much was I pleas'd with fowls and beasts, the tame
For food and profit, and the wild for game.
Excuse me when this pleasant string I touch,
(For age, of what delights it, speaks too much)
Who, twice victorious Pyrrhus conquered,
The Sabines and the Samnites captive led,
Great Curius, his remaining dayes did spend,
And in this happy life his triumphs end.
My Farm stands neer, and when I there retire,
His, and that Age's temper I admire,
The Samnites chiefs, as by his fire he sate,
With a vast sum of Gold on him did wait,
Return, said he, Your Gold I nothing weigh,
When those, who can command it, me obey:
This my assertion proves, he may be old
And yet not sordid, who refuses Gold.
In Summer to sit still, or walk, I love,
Neer a cool Fountain, or a shadie Grove,
What can in Winter render more delight?
Then the high Sun at noon, and fire at night,
While our old friends, and neighbours feast, and play,
And with their harmless mirth turn night to day,
Unpurchas'd plenty our full tables loads,
And part of what they lent, returns to our Gods.
That honour, and authority which dwells
With age, all pleasures of our youth excells,
Observe, that I that Age have only prais'd
Whose pillars were on youth's foundations rais'd,
And that (for which I great applause receiv'd)
As a true maxime hath been since believ'd.
That most unhappy age great pity needs,
Which to defend it self, new matter pleads,
Not from gray hairs authority doth flow,
Nor from bald heads, nor from a wrinckled brow,
But our past life, when virtuously spent,
Must to our age those happy fruits present,
Those things to age most Honorable are,
Which easie, common, and but light appear,
Salutes, consulting, complement, resort,
Crouding attendance to, and from the Court,
And not on Rome alone this honour waits,
But on all Civill, and well-govern'd States.
Lysander pleading in his City's praise,
From thence his strongest argument did raise,
That Sparta did with honour Age support,
Paying them just respect, at Stage, and Court,
But at proud Athens Youth did Age out-face,
Nor at the Playes, would rise, or give them place,
When an Athenian Stranger of great age,
Arriv'd at Sparta, climbing up the Stage,
To him the whole Assembly rose, and ran
To place and ease this old and reverend man,
Who thus his thanks returns, the Athenians know
What's to be done, but what they know, not do.
Here our great Senat's Orders I may quote,
The first in age is still the first in vote,
Nor honour, nor high-birth, nor great command
In competition with great years may stand.
Why should our Youths short, transient pleasures, dare
With Age's lasting honours to compare?
On the World's Stage, when our applause grows high,
For acting here, life's Tragick Comedy,
The lookers on will say we act not well,
Unless the last the former Scenes excell:
But Age is froward, uneasie, scrutinous,
Hard to be pleas'd, and parcimonious;
But all those errors from our Manners rise,
Not from our years, yet some Morosities
We must expect, since jealousie belongs
To age, of scorn, and tender sense of wrongs,
Yet those are mollify'd, or not discern'd,
Where civil arts and manners have been learn'd,
So the Twins humours in our Terence, are
Unlike, this harsh, and rude, that smooth and faire,
Our nature here, is not unlike our wine,
Some sorts, when old, continue brisk, and fine,
So Age's gravity may seem severe,
But nothing harsh, or bitter ought to'appear,
Of Age's avarice I cannot see
What colour, ground, or reason there should bee,
Is it not folly? when the way we ride
Is short, for a long voyage to provide.
To Avarice some title Youth may own,
To reap in Autumn, what the Spring had sown;
And with the providence of Bees, or Ants,
Prevent with Summers plenty, Winters wants,
But Age scarce sows, till Death stands by to reap,
And to a strangers hand transfers the heap;
Affraid to be so once, she's alwayes poor,
And to avoid a mischief, makes it sure
Such madness, as for fear of death to dy,
Is, to be poor for fear of Poverty.

4. THE FOURTH PART

Now against (that which terrifies our age)
The last, and greatest grievance we engage,
To her, grim death appears in all her shapes,
The hungry grave for her due tribute gapes,
Fond, foolish man! with fear of death surpriz'd
Which either should be wisht for, or despis'd,
This, if our Souls with Bodies, death destroy,
That, if our Souls a second life enjoy,
What else is to be fear'd? when we shall gain
Eternal life, or have no sence of pain,
The youngest in the morning are not sure,
That till the night their life they can secure
Their age stands more expos'd to accidents
Then our's, nor common cure their fate prevents:
Death's force (with terror) against Nature strives,
Nor one of many to ripe age arrives,
From this ill fate the world's disorders rise,
For if all men were old they would be wise,
Years, and experience, our fore-fathers taught,
Them under Laws, and into Cities brought:
Why only should the fear of death belong
To age? which is as common to the young:
Your hopefull Brothers, and my Son, to you
(Scipio) and me, this maxime makes too true,
But vigorous Youth may his gay thoughts erect
To many years, which Age must not expect,
But when he sees his airy hopes deceiv'd,
With grief he saies, who this would have believ'd?
We happier are then they, who but desir'd
To possess that, which we long since acquir'd.
What if our age to Nestor's could extend?
'Tis vain to think that lasting, which must end;
And when 'tis past, not any part remains
Thereof, but the reward which virtue gains.
Dayes, Months, and years, like running waters flow,
Nor what is past, nor what's to come we know,
Our date how short soe're must us content,
When a good Actor doth his part present,
In ev'ry Act he our attention draws,
That at the last he may find just applause,
So (though but short) yet we must learn the art
Of virtue, on this Stage to act our part;
True wisdome must our actions so direct,
Not only the last Plaudite to expect;
Yet grieve no more though long that part should last,
Then Husbandmen, because the Spring is past,
The Spring, like Youth, fresh blossoms doth produce,
But Autumne makes them ripe, and fit for use:
So Age a Mature Mellowness doth set
On the green promises of youthfull heat.
All things which Nature did ordain, are good,
And so must be receiv'd, and understood,
Age, like ripe Apples, on earth's bosom drops,
Whil'st force our youth, like fruits untimely crops;
The sparkling flame of our warm blood expires,
As when huge streams are pour'd on raging fires,
But age unforc'd falls by her own consent,
As Coals to ashes, when the Spirit's spent;
Therefore to death I with such joy resort,
As Seamen from a Tempest to their Port,
Yet to that Port our selves we must not force,
Before our Pilot Nature steers our course,
Let us the Causes of our fear condemn,
Then death at his approach we shall contemn,
Though to our heat of youth our age seems cold,
Yet when resolv'd, it is more brave and bold.
Thus Solon to Pisistratus reply'd,
Demanded, on what succour he rely'd,
When with so few he boldly did ingage,
He said, he took his courage from his Age.
Then death seems welcome, and our Nature kind,
When leaving us a perfect sense and mind;
She (like a Workman in his Science skill'd)
Pulls down with ease, what her own hand did build.
That Art which knew to joyn all parts in one,
Makes the least violent separation.
Yet though our Ligaments betimes grow weak,
We must not force them till themselves they break.
Pythag'ras bids us in our Station stand,
Till God our General shall us disband.
Wise Solon dying, wisht his friends might grieve,
That in their memories he still might live.
Yet wiser Ennius gave command to all
His friends, not to bewail his funeral;
Your tears for such a death in vain you spend,
Which strait in immortality shall end.
In death if there be any sense of pain,
But a short space, to age it will remain.
On which without my fears, my wishes wait,
But timorous youth on this should meditate:
Who for light pleasure this advice rejects,
Finds little, when his thoughts he recollects.
Our death (though not its certain date) we know,
Nor whether it may be this night, or no:
How then can they contented live? who fear
A danger certain, and none knows how near.
They erre, who for the fear of death dispute,
Our gallant actions this mistake confute.
Thee (Brutus) Rome's first Martyr I must name,
The Curtii bravely div'd the Gulph of Flame:
Attilius sacrific'd himself, to save
That faith, which to his barb'rous foes he gave;
With the two Scipio's did thy Uncle fall,
Rather to fly from Conquering Hannibal.
The great Marcellus (who restored Rome)
His greatest foes with Honour did intomb.
Their Lives how many of our Legions threw,
Into the breach? whence no return they knew;
Must then the wise, the old, the learned fear,
What not the rude, the young, th'unlearn'd forbear?
Satiety from all things else doth come,
Then life must to it self grow wearisome.
Those Trifles wherein Children take delight,
Grow nauceous to the young man's appetite,
And from those gaieties our youth requires,
To exercise their minds, our age retires.
And when the last delights of Age shall die,
Life in it self will find satietie.
Now you (my friends) my sense of death shall hear,
Which I can well describe, for he stands near.
Your Father Lælius, and yours Scipio,
My friends, and men of honour I did know;
As certainly as we must die, they live
That life which justly may that name receive.
Till from these prisons of our flesh releas'd,
Our souls with heavy burdens lie oppress'd;
Which part of man from Heaven falling down,
Earth in her low Abysse, doth hide, and drown.
A place so dark to the Celestial light,
And pure, eternal fires quite opposite.
The Gods through humane bodies did disperse
An heavenly soul, to guide this Universe;
That man, when he of heavenly bodies saw
The Order, might from thence a pattern draw:
Nor this to me did my own dictates show
But to the old Philosophers I owe.
I heard Pythagoras, and those who came
With him, and from our Countrey took their Name.
Who never doubted but the beams divine
Deriv'd from Gods, in mortal breasts did shine.
Nor from my knowledge did the Antients hide
What Socrates declar'd, the hour he dy'd,
He th'Immortality of Souls proclaim'd,
(Whom th'Oracle of men the wisest nam'd)
Why should we doubt of that? whereof our sence
Finds demonstration from experience;
Our minds are here and there, below, above;
Nothing that's mortal can so swiftly move.
Our thoughts to future things their flight direct,
And in an instant all that's past collect,
Reason, remembrance, wit, inventive art,
No nature, but immortal, can impart.
Man's Soul in a perpetual motion flowes,
And to no outward cause that Motion owes;
And therefore, that, no end can overtake,
Because our minds cannot themselves forsake.
And since the matter of our Soul is pure,
And simple, which no mixture can endure
Of parts, which not among themselves agree;
Therefore it never can divided be.
And Nature shews (without Philosophy)
What cannot be divided, cannot die.
We even in early infancy discern,
Knowledge is born with babes before they learn;
Ere they can speak, they find so many wayes
To serve their turn, and see more Arts than dayes,
Before their thoughts they plainly can expresse,
The words and things they know are numberlesse;
Which Nature only, and no Art could find,
But what she taught before, she call'd to mind.
This to his Sons (as Xenophon records)
Of the great Cyrus were the dying words;
This Noble Speech the dying Cyrus made.
Me (Scipio) shall no argument perswade,
Thy Grandsire, and his Brother, to whom Fame
Gave from two conquer'd parts o'th' World, their Name,
Nor thy great Grandsire, nor thy Father Paul,
Who fell at Cannæ against Hannibal;
Nor I (for 'tis permitted to the ag'd
To boast their actions) had so oft ingag'd
In Battels, and in Pleadings, had we thought,
That only Fame our vertuous actions bought,
'Twere better in soft pleasure and repose
Ingloriously our peaceful eyes to close:
Some high assurance hath possest my mind,
After my death, an happier life to find.
Unless our Souls from the Immortals came,
What end have we to seek Immortal Fame?
All vertuous spirits some such hope attends,
Therefore the wise his dayes with pleasure ends.
The foolish and short-sighted die with fear,
That they go no where, or they know not where.
The wise and vertuous Soul with cleerer eyes
Before she parts, some happy Port discries.
My friends, your Fathers I shall surely see,
Nor only those I lov'd, or who lov'd me;
But such as before ours did end their daies:
Of whom we hear, and read, and write their praise.
This I believe, for were I on my way,
None should perswade me to return, or stay:
Should some God tell me, that I should be born,
And cry again, his offer I should scorn;
Asham'd when I have ended well my race,
To be led back, to my first starting place.
And since with life we are more griev'd than joy'd,
We should be either satisfi'd, or cloy'd;
Yet will not I my length of dayes deplore,
As many wise and learn'd have done before:
Nor can I think such life in vain is lent,
Which for our Countrey and our friends is spent.
Hence from an Inne, not from my home, I pass,
Since Nature meant us here no dwelling place.
Happy when I from this turmoil set free,
That peaceful and divine assembly see:
Not only those I nam'd I there shall greet,
But my own gallant vertuous Cato meet.
Nor did I weep, when I to ashes turn'd
His belov'd body, who should mine have burn'd:
I in my thoughts beheld his Soul ascend,
Where his fixt hopes our Interview attend:
Then cease to wonder that I feel no grief
From Age, which is of my delights the chief.
My hope's, if this assurance hath deceiv'd,
(That I Man's Soul Immortal have believ'd)
And if I erre, no Pow'r shall dispossess
My thoughts of that expected happiness.
Though some minute Philosophers pretend,
That with our dayes our pains and pleasures end.
If it be so, I hold the safer side,
For none of them my Error shall deride.
And if hereafter no rewards appear,
Yet Vertue hath it self rewarded here.
If those who this Opinion have despis'd,
And their whole life to pleasure sacrific'd;
Should feel their error, they when undeceiv'd,
Too late will wish, that me they had believ'd.
If Souls no Immortality obtain,
'Tis fit our bodies should be out of pain.
The same uneasiness, which every thing
Gives to our Nature, life must also bring.
Good Acts (if long) seem tedious, so is Age
Acting too long upon this Earth her Stage.
Thus much for Age, to which when you arrive,
That Joy to you, which it gives me, 'twill give.