A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace With the Original Text, and Critical Notes collected from his best Latin and French Commentators. By the Revd Mr. Philip Francis...The third edition |
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Sat. X.
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 | A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace |  |
Sat. X.
[Yes, I did say, that his rough Verses roll'd]
Yes, I did say, that his rough Verses roll'd
In ruder Style præcipitately bold;
Who reads Lucilius with so fond an Eye,
Foolishly fond, who can this Charge deny?
But, that with Wit he lash'd a vicious Age,
He's frankly prais'd in the same equal Page.
Should I grant more, I may as well admit
Laberius' Farces elegantly writ.
In ruder Style præcipitately bold;
Who reads Lucilius with so fond an Eye,
Foolishly fond, who can this Charge deny?
But, that with Wit he lash'd a vicious Age,
He's frankly prais'd in the same equal Page.
Should I grant more, I may as well admit
Laberius' Farces elegantly writ.
113
'Tis not enough a bursting Laugh to raise,
And yet even this may well deserve its Praise;
Close be your Language; let your Sense be clear,
Nor with a Weight of Words fatigue the Ear.
From grave to jovial you must change with Art,
Now play the Critic's, now the Poet's Part;
In Raillery assume a gayer Air,
Discreetly hide your Strength, your Vigour spare,
For Ridicule shall frequently prevail,
And cut the Knot, when graver Reasons fail.
And yet even this may well deserve its Praise;
Close be your Language; let your Sense be clear,
Nor with a Weight of Words fatigue the Ear.
From grave to jovial you must change with Art,
Now play the Critic's, now the Poet's Part;
In Raillery assume a gayer Air,
Discreetly hide your Strength, your Vigour spare,
For Ridicule shall frequently prevail,
And cut the Knot, when graver Reasons fail.
The ancient Writers of the comic Stage
Our Imitation here may well engage,
Though read not by Tigellius, smooth of Face,
Or yonder Ape, of horrible Grimace.
Calvus, Catullus better suit their Vein,
Whose wanton Songs they chaunt in tuneful Strain.
Our Imitation here may well engage,
Though read not by Tigellius, smooth of Face,
Or yonder Ape, of horrible Grimace.
Calvus, Catullus better suit their Vein,
Whose wanton Songs they chaunt in tuneful Strain.
But yet a mighty Feat it must be thought—
“His motley Page with Greek and Latin's wrought!”
Blockheads! who think it wonderful or hard,
So oft perform'd by yonder Rhodian Bard.
“His motley Page with Greek and Latin's wrought!”
Blockheads! who think it wonderful or hard,
So oft perform'd by yonder Rhodian Bard.
“But Languages each other may refine
“(As Chian softens the Falernian Wine)
“At least in Verse.” But say, my rhiming Friend,
Were you that Thief Petillius to defend,
While other Lawyers sweated in the Cause,
And urg'd in pure Latinity the Laws:
While wondering Crouds upon their Language hung,
Would you forgetful of your native Tongue,
In foreign Words and broken Phrases speak,
The half-bred Jargon of a mungrel Greek?
“(As Chian softens the Falernian Wine)
115
Were you that Thief Petillius to defend,
While other Lawyers sweated in the Cause,
And urg'd in pure Latinity the Laws:
While wondering Crouds upon their Language hung,
Would you forgetful of your native Tongue,
In foreign Words and broken Phrases speak,
The half-bred Jargon of a mungrel Greek?
Italian born, I once propos'd to write
Some Grecian Versicles, in deep of Night
(When Dreams, they say, are true) Rome's Founder rose
And awful spake, “You may as well propose
“To carry Timber to a Wood, as throng
“The crouded Writers of the Grecian Song.”
Some Grecian Versicles, in deep of Night
(When Dreams, they say, are true) Rome's Founder rose
And awful spake, “You may as well propose
“To carry Timber to a Wood, as throng
“The crouded Writers of the Grecian Song.”
Let swelling Furius on th' affrighted Stage
Murder poor Memnon, or in muddy Rage
Deform the Head of Rhine: in idle Vein
I write, what never shall presume to gain
The Prize, where Metius high in Judgement sits
To hear the Labours of contending Wits;
Or where the People with applauding Hands
The well-wrought Scene repeatedly demands.
Murder poor Memnon, or in muddy Rage
Deform the Head of Rhine: in idle Vein
I write, what never shall presume to gain
The Prize, where Metius high in Judgement sits
To hear the Labours of contending Wits;
Or where the People with applauding Hands
The well-wrought Scene repeatedly demands.
Of all Mankind, in light and chearful Strain
Fundanius best can paint the comic Scene,
The wily Harlot, and the Slave, who join
To wipe the Miser of his darling Coin.
Pollio in pure, Iambic Numbers sings
The tragic Deeds of Heroes and of Kings;
And Varius in sublime and ardent Vein
Supports the Grandeur of the Epic Strain.
On Virgil all the rural Muses smile,
Smooth flow his Lines, and elegant his Style.
Satire alone remain'd, no easy Strain,
Which Varro, and some others, try'd in vain,
Where I, perhaps, some slight Success may claim,
Though far inferior to th' Inventor's Fame:
Nor from his Head shall I presume to tear
That sacred Wreath, he well deserves to wear.
Fundanius best can paint the comic Scene,
117
To wipe the Miser of his darling Coin.
Pollio in pure, Iambic Numbers sings
The tragic Deeds of Heroes and of Kings;
And Varius in sublime and ardent Vein
Supports the Grandeur of the Epic Strain.
On Virgil all the rural Muses smile,
Smooth flow his Lines, and elegant his Style.
Satire alone remain'd, no easy Strain,
Which Varro, and some others, try'd in vain,
Where I, perhaps, some slight Success may claim,
Though far inferior to th' Inventor's Fame:
Nor from his Head shall I presume to tear
That sacred Wreath, he well deserves to wear.
I said, his Verse in muddy Rapture flows,
And more his Errours, than his Beauties shows;
But, prithee, You that boast a Critic's Name
Don't you sometimes the mighty Homer blame?
Does not Lucilius, though of gentle Strain,
Correct even Accius and reform his Scene?
And in his Pleasantry old Ennius rate,
When his dull Lines want Dignity and Weight?
Yet when he speaks of his own Right to Fame
Confesses frankly their superior Claim.
And more his Errours, than his Beauties shows;
But, prithee, You that boast a Critic's Name
Don't you sometimes the mighty Homer blame?
Does not Lucilius, though of gentle Strain,
Correct even Accius and reform his Scene?
And in his Pleasantry old Ennius rate,
When his dull Lines want Dignity and Weight?
Yet when he speaks of his own Right to Fame
Confesses frankly their superior Claim.
What then forbids our equal Right to know
Why his own Verses inharmonious flow?
Or whether in his Subject lies the Fault,
Or in himself, that they're not higher wrought,
Than if the Art of Verse were to confine
In ten low Feet a cold, dull Length of Line,
Content his rhiming Talents to display
In twice an hundred Verses twice a Day.
Such, Cassius, thy Rapidity of Song,
Which like a foaming River pour'd along,
Whose volum'd Works (if Fame be not a Liar)
Kindled around thy Corps the funeral Fire.
Why his own Verses inharmonious flow?
Or whether in his Subject lies the Fault,
Or in himself, that they're not higher wrought,
Than if the Art of Verse were to confine
In ten low Feet a cold, dull Length of Line,
119
In twice an hundred Verses twice a Day.
Such, Cassius, thy Rapidity of Song,
Which like a foaming River pour'd along,
Whose volum'd Works (if Fame be not a Liar)
Kindled around thy Corps the funeral Fire.
Lucilius raillies with politer Ease
Than all the rhiming Tribe of ancient Days,
Nay more correct than him (I frankly own)
Who form'd this Kind of Verse to Greece unknown;
Yet, were he fated to the present Age,
He sure had blotted the redundant Page;
Prun'd all luxuriant Excellence away,
And while he labour'd o'er th' instructive Lay
Would often scratch his Head in dull Despair
And to the Quick his Nails bemusing tear.
Than all the rhiming Tribe of ancient Days,
Nay more correct than him (I frankly own)
Who form'd this Kind of Verse to Greece unknown;
Yet, were he fated to the present Age,
He sure had blotted the redundant Page;
Prun'd all luxuriant Excellence away,
And while he labour'd o'er th' instructive Lay
Would often scratch his Head in dull Despair
And to the Quick his Nails bemusing tear.
Would you a Reader's just Esteem engage?
Frequent correct with Care the blotted Page;
Nor strive the Wonder of the Croud to raise,
But the few better Judges learn to please.
Be thine, fond Madman, some vile School to chuse,
Where to repeat the Labours of your Muse,
While I, like hiss'd Arbuscula unaw'd,
Despise the Vulgar, since the Knights applaud.
Frequent correct with Care the blotted Page;
Nor strive the Wonder of the Croud to raise,
But the few better Judges learn to please.
Be thine, fond Madman, some vile School to chuse,
Where to repeat the Labours of your Muse,
While I, like hiss'd Arbuscula unaw'd,
Despise the Vulgar, since the Knights applaud.
Say, shall that Bug Pantilius move my Spleen?
Shall I be tortur'd when a Wretch obscene,
Or foolish Fannius, for a sordid Treat
With sweet Tigellius, shall my Verses rate?
Let Plotius, Varius, and Mæcenas deign
With Virgil, Valgius, to approve my Strain;
Let good Octavius even endure my Lays;
Let Fuscus read, and either Viscus praise;
Let me, with no mean Arts to purchase Fame,
Pollio, Messala, and his Brother name:
Let Bibulus and Servius be my own,
And Furnius for a Critic's Candour known;
Among my learned Friends are many more,
Whose Names I pass in modest Silence o'er;
These I can wish to smile; enjoy their Praise;
Hope to delight, and grieve if I can please.
Be gone, Demetrius, to thy lovesome Train
Of minstrel Scholars, and in sighing Strain
With soft Hermogenes these Rhimes deplore—
Haste, Boy, transcribe me this one Satire more.
Shall I be tortur'd when a Wretch obscene,
Or foolish Fannius, for a sordid Treat
With sweet Tigellius, shall my Verses rate?
Let Plotius, Varius, and Mæcenas deign
With Virgil, Valgius, to approve my Strain;
Let good Octavius even endure my Lays;
Let Fuscus read, and either Viscus praise;
121
Pollio, Messala, and his Brother name:
Let Bibulus and Servius be my own,
And Furnius for a Critic's Candour known;
Among my learned Friends are many more,
Whose Names I pass in modest Silence o'er;
These I can wish to smile; enjoy their Praise;
Hope to delight, and grieve if I can please.
Be gone, Demetrius, to thy lovesome Train
Of minstrel Scholars, and in sighing Strain
With soft Hermogenes these Rhimes deplore—
Haste, Boy, transcribe me this one Satire more.
| A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace | |