The poems and translations of Sir Edward Sherburne (1616-1702) excluding Seneca and Manilius Introduced and Annotated by F. J. Van Beeck |
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 | The poems and translations of Sir Edward Sherburne (1616-1702) |  |
Enter Solon.
Loe! on the Roman Stage is Solon come,
Clad in his Græcian Ornaments: To whom
Fame gave the prize of Wisdome from the rest;
But Fame is not of Censure the strict Test.
Nor first nor last I take my self to be,
For there's no Order in Equalitie.
Well did the Delphick Prophet sport with him
Who ask'd, which first of the VVise-men might seem,
Saying; if on a Globe their Names he writ,
None first, or lowest he should find in it.
From midd'st of that learn'd Round come I; that so,
VVhat once I spake to Crœsus, All here now
Might take as spoken to themselves; 'Tis this:
Οραν Τελος μακρου βιου; which is
In English, Mark of a long life the End;
'Till then your Censure of All Men suspend:
Nor Miserable These, nor happy Those
Esteem; for None are such till their last Close.
The Ground of this wee'l in few Words display.
Clad in his Græcian Ornaments: To whom
Fame gave the prize of Wisdome from the rest;
But Fame is not of Censure the strict Test.
Nor first nor last I take my self to be,
For there's no Order in Equalitie.
Well did the Delphick Prophet sport with him
Who ask'd, which first of the VVise-men might seem,
Saying; if on a Globe their Names he writ,
None first, or lowest he should find in it.
From midd'st of that learn'd Round come I; that so,
VVhat once I spake to Crœsus, All here now
Might take as spoken to themselves; 'Tis this:
Οραν Τελος μακρου βιου; which is
In English, Mark of a long life the End;
85
Nor Miserable These, nor happy Those
Esteem; for None are such till their last Close.
The Ground of this wee'l in few Words display.
Crœsus, the Tyrant King of Lydia,
Happy, and rich even to Excesse! (who wall'd
The Temples of his Gods with pure Gold) call'd
Me from my Country to him: We obey
His Royall Summons, went to Lydia,
Willing his Subjects by our means might find
Their King improv'd, and better'd in his Mind.
He asks Me whom I thought the happiest Man?
I said Telana the Athenian,
Who his life nobly for his Country gave;
He pishes at it, will another have.
I told him then Aglaus who the Bounds
Ne'r past in all his life of his own grounds;
Smiling, he sayes, what think you then of Me?
Esteem'd the happyest in the whole World? We
Reply'd, his End could only make that known.
He takes this Ill: I, willing to be gon,
Kisse his hand, and so leave him: For some Ends
Meantime, 'gainst Persia he a War intends;
And all Things ready, does in Person goe.
How speeds? hee's vanquish'd, Prisoner to his foe,
And ready now to yeeld his latest Breath,
(For by the Victor he was doom'd to death)
Upon the Funerall Pile rounded with Flames
And smoak, he thus with a loud voice exclames.
O Solon! Solon! now I plainly see
Th'art a true Prophet! thrice thus naming Me.
Mov'd with which words, Cyrus, (the Conquerour)
Commands the Fire be quencht, which, by a showre
Of Rain then falling, happily was layd.
Thence to the King by a choice Guard convay'd,
And question'd who that Solon was? and why
He call'd so on his Name? He, for Reply,
In Order all declares: Pitty at this
The Heart of Cyrus moves; and Crœsus is
Receiv'd to grace, who in a Princely Port
Liv'd after, honour'd in the Persian Court.
Both Kings approv'd, and prais'd Me; but what I
Said then to one, let each Man here apply
As spoke t'himself; 'twas for that end I came.
Farewell: your liking let your hands proclame.
Exit Solon.
Happy, and rich even to Excesse! (who wall'd
The Temples of his Gods with pure Gold) call'd
Me from my Country to him: We obey
His Royall Summons, went to Lydia,
Willing his Subjects by our means might find
Their King improv'd, and better'd in his Mind.
He asks Me whom I thought the happiest Man?
I said Telana the Athenian,
Who his life nobly for his Country gave;
He pishes at it, will another have.
I told him then Aglaus who the Bounds
Ne'r past in all his life of his own grounds;
Smiling, he sayes, what think you then of Me?
Esteem'd the happyest in the whole World? We
Reply'd, his End could only make that known.
He takes this Ill: I, willing to be gon,
Kisse his hand, and so leave him: For some Ends
Meantime, 'gainst Persia he a War intends;
And all Things ready, does in Person goe.
How speeds? hee's vanquish'd, Prisoner to his foe,
And ready now to yeeld his latest Breath,
(For by the Victor he was doom'd to death)
Upon the Funerall Pile rounded with Flames
And smoak, he thus with a loud voice exclames.
O Solon! Solon! now I plainly see
Th'art a true Prophet! thrice thus naming Me.
Mov'd with which words, Cyrus, (the Conquerour)
Commands the Fire be quencht, which, by a showre
Of Rain then falling, happily was layd.
Thence to the King by a choice Guard convay'd,
And question'd who that Solon was? and why
He call'd so on his Name? He, for Reply,
In Order all declares: Pitty at this
The Heart of Cyrus moves; and Crœsus is
Receiv'd to grace, who in a Princely Port
Liv'd after, honour'd in the Persian Court.
Both Kings approv'd, and prais'd Me; but what I
Said then to one, let each Man here apply
86
Farewell: your liking let your hands proclame.
| The poems and translations of Sir Edward Sherburne (1616-1702) | |