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. III. Damasippus. Horace.
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 | A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace |  |
Sat. III. Damasippus. Horace.
Damas.If hardly once a Quarter of a Year,
So idle grown, a single Sheet appear;
If angry at yourself, that Sleep and Wine
Enjoy your Hours, while anxious to refine
Your Labours past, no more your Voice you raise
To aught that may deserve the publick Praise,
153
Seem'd too luxuriant to your sober Taste,
Hither you fled. Then try the pleasing Strain:
Come on: begin.
Horace.
Alas! 'tis all in vain,
While I with Impotence of Rage abuse
My harmless Pens, the guiltless Walls accuse;
Walls, that seem rais'd in angry Heaven's Despite,
The Curse of peevish Poets, when they write.
Damas.
And yet you threaten'd something wonderous great,
When you should warm you in your Country-seat.
Why croud the Volumes of the Grecian Sage,
Rang'd with the Writers of the comic Stage?
Think you the Wrath of Envy to appease,
Your Virtue lost in Idleness and Ease?
Unhappy Bard, to sure Contempt you run,
Then learn the Siren Idleness to shun,
Or poorly be content to lose the Fame,
Which your past Hours of better Life might claim.
Horace.
Sage Damasippus, may the Powers divine,
For this same excellent Advice of thine,
Give thee a Barber, in their special Grace,
To nurse your Beard, that Wisdom of the Face.
155
Damas.
When I had lost all Business of my own,
And at th' Exchange my ship-wreck'd Fortunes broke,
I minded the Affairs of other Folk.
In rare Antiques full curious was my Taste,
Here the rude Chizzel's rougher Strokes I trac'd;
In flowing Brass a vicious Hardness found,
Or bought a Statue for five hundred Pound.
A perfect Connoisseur at gainful Rate,
I purchas'd Gardens, or a Mansion-Seat.
Thus through the City was I known to Fame,
And Mercury's Favourite my public Name.
Horace.
I knew your Illness, and amaz'd beheld
Your sudden Cure.
Damas.
A new Disease expell'd
My old Distemper: as when changing Pains
Fly to the Stomach from the Head and Reins.
Thus the Lethargie, starting from his Bed
In boxing Frenzy, broke his Doctor's Head.
157
Spare but this Frenzy, use me as you please—
Damas.
Good Sir, don't triumph in your own Disease,
For all are Fools or Mad, as well as you,
At least, if what Stertinius says, be true,
Whose wonderous Precepts I with Pleasure heard,
What Time he bad me nurse this reverend Beard,
Chearful from the Fabrician Bridge depart,
And with the Words of Comfort fill'd my Heart.
For all are Fools or Mad, as well as you,
At least, if what Stertinius says, be true,
Whose wonderous Precepts I with Pleasure heard,
What Time he bad me nurse this reverend Beard,
Chearful from the Fabrician Bridge depart,
And with the Words of Comfort fill'd my Heart.
For when, my Fortunes lost, resolv'd I stood,
Covering my Head, to plunge into the Flood,
Propitious he addrest me—
Covering my Head, to plunge into the Flood,
Propitious he addrest me—
Stertinius.
Friend, take heed,
Nor wrong yourself by this unworthy Deed.
'Tis but a vicious Modesty to fear
Among the Mad a Madman to appear.
But listen heedful first, while I explain
What Madness is, what Errour of the Brain;
And if in you alone appear its Power,
Then bravely perish: I shall say no more.
Nor wrong yourself by this unworthy Deed.
'Tis but a vicious Modesty to fear
Among the Mad a Madman to appear.
But listen heedful first, while I explain
What Madness is, what Errour of the Brain;
And if in you alone appear its Power,
Then bravely perish: I shall say no more.
159
Whom vicious Passions, or whom Falshood, blind,
Are by the Stoics held of madding Kind.
All but the Wise are by this Process bound,
The subject Nations, and the Monarch crown'd,
And they, who call you Fool, with equal Claim
May plead an ample Title to the Name.
Are by the Stoics held of madding Kind.
All but the Wise are by this Process bound,
The subject Nations, and the Monarch crown'd,
And they, who call you Fool, with equal Claim
May plead an ample Title to the Name.
When in a Wood we leave the certain Way
One Errour fools us, though we various stray,
Some to the left, and some to t'other Side;
So he who dares thy Madness to deride,
Though you may frankly own yourself a Fool,
Behind him trails his Mark of Ridicule.
For various Follies fill the human Breast,
As, with unreal Terrours when possest,
A Wretch in superstitious Frenzy cries,
Lo! in the Plain what Rocks, what Rivers rise!
A different Madness, though not less, inspires
The Fool, who rushes wild through Streams and Fires;
His Mother, Sister, Father, Friends and Wife,
Cry out, in vain, Ah! yet preserve thy Life;
That head-long Ditch! how dreadful it appears!
That hanging Precipice! no more he hears,
Than drunken Fufius lately at a Play
Who fairly slept Ilione away,
While the full Pit, with clamorous thousands, cries,
Arise, dear Mother, to my Aid, arise.
One Errour fools us, though we various stray,
Some to the left, and some to t'other Side;
So he who dares thy Madness to deride,
Though you may frankly own yourself a Fool,
Behind him trails his Mark of Ridicule.
For various Follies fill the human Breast,
As, with unreal Terrours when possest,
A Wretch in superstitious Frenzy cries,
Lo! in the Plain what Rocks, what Rivers rise!
A different Madness, though not less, inspires
The Fool, who rushes wild through Streams and Fires;
His Mother, Sister, Father, Friends and Wife,
Cry out, in vain, Ah! yet preserve thy Life;
That head-long Ditch! how dreadful it appears!
That hanging Precipice! no more he hears,
Than drunken Fufius lately at a Play
Who fairly slept Ilione away,
161
Arise, dear Mother, to my Aid, arise.
Now listen while full clearly I maintain
Such is the vulgar Errour of the Brain.
Some rare Antique, suppose, your Madness buys;
Is he, who lends the Money, less unwise?
Or if the Usurer Perillius said,
Take what I ne'er expect shall be repaid,
Are you a Fool to take it, or not more
T'affront the God, who sends the shining Store
Such is the vulgar Errour of the Brain.
Some rare Antique, suppose, your Madness buys;
Is he, who lends the Money, less unwise?
Or if the Usurer Perillius said,
Take what I ne'er expect shall be repaid,
Are you a Fool to take it, or not more
T'affront the God, who sends the shining Store
Perillius.
Ay; but I make him on a Banker draw—
Stert.
'Tis not enough: add all the Forms of Law;
The knotty Contracts of Cicuta's Brain,
This wicked Proteus shall escape the Chain:
Drag him to Justice, he's a Bird, a Stone,
And laughs, as if his Cheeks were not his own.
The knotty Contracts of Cicuta's Brain,
This wicked Proteus shall escape the Chain:
Drag him to Justice, he's a Bird, a Stone,
And laughs, as if his Cheeks were not his own.
If bad Oeconomists are held unwise,
In good Oeconomy some Wisdom lies,
And then Perillius is of tainted Brain,
Who takes your Bond, to sue for it in vain.
In good Oeconomy some Wisdom lies,
And then Perillius is of tainted Brain,
Who takes your Bond, to sue for it in vain.
Come all, whose Breasts with bad Ambition rise,
Or the pale Passion, that for Money dies,
With Luxury, or Superstition's Gloom,
Whate'er Disease your Health of Mind consume,
Compose your Robes; in decent Ranks draw near,
And, that ye all are mad, with Reverence hear.
Or the pale Passion, that for Money dies,
163
Whate'er Disease your Health of Mind consume,
Compose your Robes; in decent Ranks draw near,
And, that ye all are mad, with Reverence hear.
Misers make whole Anticyra their own:
Its Hellebore reserv'd for them alone.
Staberius thus compell'd his Heirs t'engrave
On his proud Tomb what Legacies he gave,
Or stand condemn'd to give the Croud a Feast,
By Arrius form'd in Elegance of Taste,
And Gladiators, even an hundred Pair,
With all the Corn of Afric's fruitful Year.
Such is my Will, and whether Fool or Wise,
I scorn your Censures the Testator cries.
Wisely perceiving—
Its Hellebore reserv'd for them alone.
Staberius thus compell'd his Heirs t'engrave
On his proud Tomb what Legacies he gave,
Or stand condemn'd to give the Croud a Feast,
By Arrius form'd in Elegance of Taste,
And Gladiators, even an hundred Pair,
With all the Corn of Afric's fruitful Year.
Such is my Will, and whether Fool or Wise,
I scorn your Censures the Testator cries.
Wisely perceiving—
Damas.
What could he perceive,
Thus on his Tomb his Fortune to engrave?
Stert.
Long as he liv'd, he look'd on Poverty,
And shun'd it as a Crime of blackest Dye;
And had he died one Farthing less in Pelf,
Had seem'd a worthless Villain to himself;
For Virtue, Glory, Beauty, all divine
And human Powers, immortal Gold! are thine;
165
Noble, brave, just—
Damas.
You will not call him wise.
Stert.
Yes; any thing; a Monarch, if he please;
And thus Staberius, nobly fond of Praise,
By latest Times might hope to be admir'd,
As if his Virtue had his Wealth acquir'd.
And thus Staberius, nobly fond of Praise,
By latest Times might hope to be admir'd,
As if his Virtue had his Wealth acquir'd.
When Aristippus, on the Lybian Waste
Commands his Slaves, because it stop'd their Haste,
To throw away his Gold, does he not seem
To be as mad, in opposite Extreme?
Commands his Slaves, because it stop'd their Haste,
To throw away his Gold, does he not seem
To be as mad, in opposite Extreme?
Damas.
By such Examples, Truth can ne'er be try'd:
They but perplex the Question, not decide.
Stert.
If a Man fill'd his Cabinet with Lyres,
Whom neither Music charms, nor Muse inspires:
Should he buy Lasts and Knives, who never made
A Shoe; or if a Wight, who hated Trade
The Sails and Tackle for a Vessel bought,
Madman or Fool he might be justly thought.
But, prithee, where's the Difference, to behold
A Wretch, who heaps and hides his darling Gold;
Unknowing how to use the massy Store,
Yet dreads to violate the sacred Ore?
Whom neither Music charms, nor Muse inspires:
Should he buy Lasts and Knives, who never made
A Shoe; or if a Wight, who hated Trade
The Sails and Tackle for a Vessel bought,
Madman or Fool he might be justly thought.
But, prithee, where's the Difference, to behold
A Wretch, who heaps and hides his darling Gold;
Unknowing how to use the massy Store,
Yet dreads to violate the sacred Ore?
167
With a long Club, and ever-open Eyes,
To guard his Corn its wretched Master lies,
Nor dares, though hungry, touch the hoarded Grain,
While bitter Herbs his frugal Life sustain;
If in his Cellar lie a thousand Flasks
(Nay, let them rise to thrice a thousand Gasks)
Of old Falernian, or of Chian Vine,
Yet if he drink meer Vinegar for Wine;
If at Fourscore of Straw he made his Bed,
While Moths upon his rotting Carpets fed,
By few, forsooth, a Madman he is thought,
For half Mankind the same Disease have caught.
To guard his Corn its wretched Master lies,
Nor dares, though hungry, touch the hoarded Grain,
While bitter Herbs his frugal Life sustain;
If in his Cellar lie a thousand Flasks
(Nay, let them rise to thrice a thousand Gasks)
Of old Falernian, or of Chian Vine,
Yet if he drink meer Vinegar for Wine;
If at Fourscore of Straw he made his Bed,
While Moths upon his rotting Carpets fed,
By few, forsooth, a Madman he is thought,
For half Mankind the same Disease have caught.
Thou Dotard, cursed in the Love of Pelf,
For fear of starving, will you starve yourself?
Or do you this ill-gotten Treasure save
For a luxurious Son, or favourite Slave?
How little would thy Mass of Money waste,
Did you on better Oil and Cabbage feast;
Or on thy clotted Hair and Dandriff-Head,
A sweeter Essence more profusely shed?
If Nature wish for no immoderate Store,
Then why forswear, and rob, and steal for more?
For fear of starving, will you starve yourself?
Or do you this ill-gotten Treasure save
For a luxurious Son, or favourite Slave?
How little would thy Mass of Money waste,
Did you on better Oil and Cabbage feast;
Or on thy clotted Hair and Dandriff-Head,
A sweeter Essence more profusely shed?
If Nature wish for no immoderate Store,
Then why forswear, and rob, and steal for more?
Yet are you sound? But if your Folly raves
With Stones to kill the People or your Slaves;
Those Slaves, whom you with Pelf, how precious! buy,
A Madman, Madman, even the Children cry.
Is your Head safe, although You hang your Wife,
Or take by Poison your old Mother's Life?
What! nor in Argos you commit the Deed,
Nor did your Mother by a Dagger bleed;
Nor by a mad Orestes was she slain—
But was Orestes of untainted Brain,
Or was he not by Furies dire possest,
Before he plung'd the Dagger in her Breast?
With Stones to kill the People or your Slaves;
Those Slaves, whom you with Pelf, how precious! buy,
A Madman, Madman, even the Children cry.
Is your Head safe, although You hang your Wife,
Or take by Poison your old Mother's Life?
What! nor in Argos you commit the Deed,
Nor did your Mother by a Dagger bleed;
169
But was Orestes of untainted Brain,
Or was he not by Furies dire possest,
Before he plung'd the Dagger in her Breast?
Yet from the Time you hold him hurt in Mind,
His wildest Actions are of harmless Kind.
He neither stabs his Sister nor his Friend;
In a few Curses his worst Passions end;
He calls her Fury, or whatever Names
Flow from a Breast, which Choler high enflames.
His wildest Actions are of harmless Kind.
He neither stabs his Sister nor his Friend;
In a few Curses his worst Passions end;
He calls her Fury, or whatever Names
Flow from a Breast, which Choler high enflames.
Opimius, wanting even what he possest,
In earthen Cups, on some more solemn Feast,
Quaff'd the poor Juices of a meagre Vine,
On Week-Days dead and vapid was his Wine,
When with an heavy Lethargy opprest,
His Heir in Triumph ran from Chest to Chest;
Swift to his Aid his faithful Doctor flies,
And to restore him this Expedient tries;
From out his Bags he pours the shining Store,
And bids a Croud of People count it o'er;
Then plac'd the Table near his Patient's Bed,
And loud, as if he rouz'd him from the Dead,
“Awake, and guard your Wealth; this Moment wake:
“Your ravening Heir will every Shilling take.”
What! while I live? “Then, wake, that you may live;
“Here take the best Prescription I can give.
“Your bloodless Veins, your Appetite shall fail,
“Unless You raise them by a powerful Meal.
“Take this Ptisane—” What will it cost? Nay, hold.
“A very Trifle.” Sir, I will be told.—
“Three Pence.”—Alas! what does it signify,
Whether by Doctors, or by Thieves I die?
In earthen Cups, on some more solemn Feast,
Quaff'd the poor Juices of a meagre Vine,
On Week-Days dead and vapid was his Wine,
When with an heavy Lethargy opprest,
His Heir in Triumph ran from Chest to Chest;
Swift to his Aid his faithful Doctor flies,
And to restore him this Expedient tries;
From out his Bags he pours the shining Store,
And bids a Croud of People count it o'er;
Then plac'd the Table near his Patient's Bed,
And loud, as if he rouz'd him from the Dead,
“Awake, and guard your Wealth; this Moment wake:
“Your ravening Heir will every Shilling take.”
What! while I live? “Then, wake, that you may live;
“Here take the best Prescription I can give.
“Your bloodless Veins, your Appetite shall fail,
“Unless You raise them by a powerful Meal.
171
“A very Trifle.” Sir, I will be told.—
“Three Pence.”—Alas! what does it signify,
Whether by Doctors, or by Thieves I die?
Damas.
Who then is sound?
Stert.
Whoever's not a Fool.
Damas.
What think you of the Miser?
Stert.
By my Rule,
Both Fool and Madman.
Damas.
Is he sound and well,
If not a Miser?
Stert.
No.
Damas.
I prithee tell,
Good Stoic, why?
Stert.
Let us suppose you heard
An able Doctor, who perchance declar'd
His Patient's Stomach good; yet shall he rise,
Or is he well? Ah! no, the Doctor cries,
Because a keen Variety of Pains
Attack the Wretch's Side, or vex his Reins.
An able Doctor, who perchance declar'd
His Patient's Stomach good; yet shall he rise,
Or is he well? Ah! no, the Doctor cries,
Because a keen Variety of Pains
Attack the Wretch's Side, or vex his Reins.
173
You are not perjur'd, or to Gold a Slave;
Let Heaven your grateful Sacrifice receive.
But if your Breast with bold Ambition glows,
Set sail where Hellebore abundant grows.
For, prithee, say, what Difference can you find,
Whether to Scoundrels of the vilest Kind
You throw away your Wealth in lewd Excess,
Or know not to enjoy what you possess?
Let Heaven your grateful Sacrifice receive.
But if your Breast with bold Ambition glows,
Set sail where Hellebore abundant grows.
For, prithee, say, what Difference can you find,
Whether to Scoundrels of the vilest Kind
You throw away your Wealth in lewd Excess,
Or know not to enjoy what you possess?
When rich Oppidius, as old Tales relate,
To his two Sons divided his Estate,
Two ancient Farms, he call'd them to his Bed,
And dying thus with faultering Accent said;
In your loose Robe when I have seen you bear
Your Play-things, Aulus, with an heedless Air,
Or careless give them to your Friends away,
Or with a Gamester's desperate Spirit play;
While you, Tiberius, anxious counted o'er
Your childish Wealth, and hid the little Store,
A different Madness seem'd to be your Fate,
Misers or Spendthrifts born to imitate.
Then, by our household Gods, my Sons, I charge,
That you ne'er lessen, that you ne'er enlarge
What seems sufficient to your tender Sire,
And Nature's most unbounded Wants require.
To his two Sons divided his Estate,
Two ancient Farms, he call'd them to his Bed,
And dying thus with faultering Accent said;
In your loose Robe when I have seen you bear
Your Play-things, Aulus, with an heedless Air,
Or careless give them to your Friends away,
Or with a Gamester's desperate Spirit play;
While you, Tiberius, anxious counted o'er
Your childish Wealth, and hid the little Store,
A different Madness seem'd to be your Fate,
Misers or Spendthrifts born to imitate.
Then, by our household Gods, my Sons, I charge,
That you ne'er lessen, that you ne'er enlarge
What seems sufficient to your tender Sire,
And Nature's most unbounded Wants require.
That Glory ne'er may tempt ye, hear this Oath,
By whose eternal Power I bind ye both,
Curs'd be the Wretch, an Object of my Hate,
Whoe'er accepts an Office in the State.
Will you in Largesses exhaust your Store,
That you may proudly stalk the Circus o'er?
Or in the Capitol embronz'd may stand,
Spoil'd of your Fortune and paternal Land?
And thus, forsooth, Agrippa's Praise engage,
Or shew, with Reynard's Tricks, the Lion's Rage?
By whose eternal Power I bind ye both,
175
Whoe'er accepts an Office in the State.
Will you in Largesses exhaust your Store,
That you may proudly stalk the Circus o'er?
Or in the Capitol embronz'd may stand,
Spoil'd of your Fortune and paternal Land?
And thus, forsooth, Agrippa's Praise engage,
Or shew, with Reynard's Tricks, the Lion's Rage?
Wherefore does Ajax thus unburied lie?
Agam.
We are a King,
Stert.
A base Plebeian I,
Shall ask no more.
Agam.
'Twas just what we decreed;
But, if you think it an unrighteous Deed,
In Safety speak. We here our Rights resign.
Stert.
Greatest of Monarchs, may the Powers divine
A safe Return permit you to enjoy,
With your victorious Fleet, from ruin'd Troy—
But may I ask, and answer without Fear?
Agam.
You may.
Stert.
Then wherefore rots great Ajax here,
177
To brave Achilles the next Place in Fame?
Is it that Priam, and the Sires of Troy,
May view his Carcass with malignant Joy,
By whom their Sons so oft destroy'd in Fight
In their own Country want the funeral Rite?
Agam.
A thousand Sheep the Frantick kill'd, and cry'd,
“Here both Atrides; there Ulysses died.”
Stert.
When your own Child you to the Altar led,
And pour'd the salted Meal upon her Head;
When you beheld the lovely Victim slain,
Unnatural Father! were you sound of Brain?
Agam.
Why not?
Stert.
Then what did frantick Ajax do,
When in his Rage a thousand Sheep he slew?
Nor on his Wife or Son he drew his Sword,
But on your Head his Imprecations pour'd:
Nor on his Brother turn'd the vengeful Steel,
Nor did Ulysses his Resentment feel.
Agam.
But I, while adverse Winds tempestuous roar,
To loose our fated Navy from the Shore
179
Stret.
What! your own Blood, you Madman?
Agam.
Yes, my own;
But yet not mad.
Stret.
'Tis a disorder'd Head,
Which, by the Passions in Confusion led,
The Images of Right and Wrong mistakes,
And Rage or Folly no great Difference makes.
Which, by the Passions in Confusion led,
The Images of Right and Wrong mistakes,
And Rage or Folly no great Difference makes.
Was Ajax mad, when those poor Lambs he slew,
And are your Senses right, while you pursue,
With such a Crime, an empty Title's Fame?
Is the Heart pure high-swelling for a Name?
And are your Senses right, while you pursue,
With such a Crime, an empty Title's Fame?
Is the Heart pure high-swelling for a Name?
Should a Man take a Lambkin in his Chair,
With fondling Names caress the spotless Fair;
Clothes, Maids and Gold, as for his Child, provide,
And a stout Husband for the lovely Bride,
His civil Rights the Judge would take away,
And to Trustees in Guardianship convey.
Then sure you will not call him sound of Brain,
By whom his Daughter for a Lamb was slain.
Blood-stain'd Bellona thunders round his Head,
Who is by glassy Fame in Triumph led.
With fondling Names caress the spotless Fair;
Clothes, Maids and Gold, as for his Child, provide,
And a stout Husband for the lovely Bride,
His civil Rights the Judge would take away,
And to Trustees in Guardianship convey.
Then sure you will not call him sound of Brain,
By whom his Daughter for a Lamb was slain.
181
Who is by glassy Fame in Triumph led.
Now try the Sons of Luxury, you'll find,
That Reason proves them Fools of madding kind
A thousand Talents yonder Youth receives,
Paternal Wealth, and streight his Orders gives,
That all the Trades of Elegance and Taste,
All who with Wit and Humour joy a Feast,
The impious Croud, that fills the Tuscan Street,
And the whole Shambles at his House should meet.
What then? they frequent his Command obey'd,
And thus his Speech the wily Pander made.
Whate'er these People have: whate'er is mine;
To-day, to-morrow send, be sure is thine.
That Reason proves them Fools of madding kind
A thousand Talents yonder Youth receives,
Paternal Wealth, and streight his Orders gives,
That all the Trades of Elegance and Taste,
All who with Wit and Humour joy a Feast,
The impious Croud, that fills the Tuscan Street,
And the whole Shambles at his House should meet.
What then? they frequent his Command obey'd,
And thus his Speech the wily Pander made.
Whate'er these People have: whate'er is mine;
To-day, to-morrow send, be sure is thine.
Hear the just Youth this generous Answer make,
“In clumsy Boots, dear Hunter, for my sake,
“You sleep in wild Lucania's snowy Waste,
“That I at Night on a whole Boar may feast.
“For Fish you boldly sweep the wintry Seas,
“That I, unworthy, may enjoy my Ease.
“Let each five hundred Pounds, with Pleasure, take,
“To thee, dear Pander, I a Present make
“Of twice a thousand, that with all her Charms
“Your Wife at Night may run into my Arms.”
“In clumsy Boots, dear Hunter, for my sake,
“You sleep in wild Lucania's snowy Waste,
“That I at Night on a whole Boar may feast.
“For Fish you boldly sweep the wintry Seas,
“That I, unworthy, may enjoy my Ease.
“Let each five hundred Pounds, with Pleasure, take,
“To thee, dear Pander, I a Present make
“Of twice a thousand, that with all her Charms
“Your Wife at Night may run into my Arms.”
An Actor's Son dissolv'd a wealthy Pearl
(The precious Ear-ring of his favourite Girl)
In Vinegar, and thus luxurious quaff'd
A thousand solid Talents at a Draught.
Had he not equally his Wisdom shown,
Into the Sink or River were it thrown?
(The precious Ear-ring of his favourite Girl)
In Vinegar, and thus luxurious quaff'd
A thousand solid Talents at a Draught.
Had he not equally his Wisdom shown,
Into the Sink or River were it thrown?
A noble Pair of Brothers, Twins, in Truth,
In all th' Excesses, Trifles, Crimes of Youth,
On Nightingales of monstrous Purchase din'd;
What is their Process? Are they sound of Mind?
In all th' Excesses, Trifles, Crimes of Youth,
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What is their Process? Are they sound of Mind?
Suppose, in childish Architecture skill'd,
A bearded Sage his Castle-Cottage build,
Play odd and even, ride his reedy Cane,
And yoke his harness'd Mice, 'tis Madness plain.
But what if Reason, powerful Reason, prove
'Tis more than equal Childishness to love?
If there's no Difference, whether in the Dust
You sport your Infant Works, or high in Lust,
An Harlot's Cruelty with Tears deplore,
Will you, like much-chang'd Polemon of yore,
Throw off the Ensigns of the dear Disease,
The Arts of Dress, and Earnestness to please?
For the gay Youth, though high with Liquor warm'd,
Was by the sober Sage's Doctrine charm'd?
Chastis'd he listen'd to th' instructive Lore,
And from his Head the breathing Garland tore.
A bearded Sage his Castle-Cottage build,
Play odd and even, ride his reedy Cane,
And yoke his harness'd Mice, 'tis Madness plain.
But what if Reason, powerful Reason, prove
'Tis more than equal Childishness to love?
If there's no Difference, whether in the Dust
You sport your Infant Works, or high in Lust,
An Harlot's Cruelty with Tears deplore,
Will you, like much-chang'd Polemon of yore,
Throw off the Ensigns of the dear Disease,
The Arts of Dress, and Earnestness to please?
For the gay Youth, though high with Liquor warm'd,
Was by the sober Sage's Doctrine charm'd?
Chastis'd he listen'd to th' instructive Lore,
And from his Head the breathing Garland tore.
A peevish Boy shall proffer'd Fruit despise;
“Take it, dear Puppy.” No, and yet he dies
If you refuse it. Does not this discover
The froward Soul of a discarded Lover,
Thus reasoning with himself? What! when thus slighted
Shall I return, return though uninvited?
Yes, he shall sure return and lingering wait
At the proud Doors he now presumes to hate.
“Shall I not go if she submissive send,
“Or here resolve, my Injuries shall end?
“Expell'd, recall'd, shall I go back again?
“No; let her kneel; for she shall kneel in vain.”
When lo! his wily Servant well reply'd,
Think not by Rule and Reason, Sir, to guide
What ne'er by Reason or by Measure move,
For Peace and War succeed by Turns in Love,
And while tempestuous these Emotions roll,
And float with blind Disorder in the Soul,
Who strives to fix them by one certain Rule,
May by right Rule and Reason play the Fool.
“Take it, dear Puppy.” No, and yet he dies
If you refuse it. Does not this discover
The froward Soul of a discarded Lover,
Thus reasoning with himself? What! when thus slighted
Shall I return, return though uninvited?
Yes, he shall sure return and lingering wait
At the proud Doors he now presumes to hate.
“Shall I not go if she submissive send,
“Or here resolve, my Injuries shall end?
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“No; let her kneel; for she shall kneel in vain.”
When lo! his wily Servant well reply'd,
Think not by Rule and Reason, Sir, to guide
What ne'er by Reason or by Measure move,
For Peace and War succeed by Turns in Love,
And while tempestuous these Emotions roll,
And float with blind Disorder in the Soul,
Who strives to fix them by one certain Rule,
May by right Rule and Reason play the Fool.
When from the Roof the darted Pippins bound,
Does the glad Omen prove your Senses sound?
With aged Tongue you breathe the lisping Phrases—
Is he more mad, who that Child-Cottage raises?
Then add the Murders of this fond Desire,
And with the Sword provoke the madding Fire.
Does the glad Omen prove your Senses sound?
With aged Tongue you breathe the lisping Phrases—
Is he more mad, who that Child-Cottage raises?
Then add the Murders of this fond Desire,
And with the Sword provoke the madding Fire.
When jealous Marius late his Mistress slew,
And from a Precipice himself he threw,
Was he not mad, or can you by your Rule
Condemn the Murderer, and absolve the Fool?
But though in civil Phrase you change the Name,
Madman and Fool for ever are the same.
And from a Precipice himself he threw,
Was he not mad, or can you by your Rule
Condemn the Murderer, and absolve the Fool?
But though in civil Phrase you change the Name,
Madman and Fool for ever are the same.
With Hands clean wash'd, a sober, ancient Wight
Ran praying through the Streets at early Light,
“Snatch me from Death; grant me alone to live;
“No mighty Boon; with Ease the Gods can give.”
Sound were his Senses, yet if he were sold,
His Master sure this Weakness must have told,
And if not fond a Law-suit to maintain,
Must have confess'd the Slave unsound of Brain.
This Croud is by the Doctrine of our Schools
Enroll'd in the large Family of Fools.
Ran praying through the Streets at early Light,
“Snatch me from Death; grant me alone to live;
“No mighty Boon; with Ease the Gods can give.”
Sound were his Senses, yet if he were sold,
His Master sure this Weakness must have told,
And if not fond a Law-suit to maintain,
Must have confess'd the Slave unsound of Brain.
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Enroll'd in the large Family of Fools.
Her Child beneath a Quartan Fever lies
For full five Months, when the fond Mother cries,
“Sickness and Health are thine, all powerful Jove,
“Then from my Son this dire Disease remove,
“And when your Priests thy solemn Fast proclaim,
“Naked the Boy shall stand in Tyber's Stream.”
Should Chance, or the Physician's Art up-raise
Her Infant from this desperate Disease,
The frantic Dame shall plunge her hapless Boy,
Bring back the Fever, and the Child destroy.
Tell me, what Horrours thus have turn'd her Head?
Of the good Gods a superstitious Dread.
For full five Months, when the fond Mother cries,
“Sickness and Health are thine, all powerful Jove,
“Then from my Son this dire Disease remove,
“And when your Priests thy solemn Fast proclaim,
“Naked the Boy shall stand in Tyber's Stream.”
Should Chance, or the Physician's Art up-raise
Her Infant from this desperate Disease,
The frantic Dame shall plunge her hapless Boy,
Bring back the Fever, and the Child destroy.
Tell me, what Horrours thus have turn'd her Head?
Of the good Gods a superstitious Dread.
Damas.
These Arms Stertinius gave me, our eighth Sage,
That none unpunish'd may provoke my Rage;
Who calls me mad, shall hear himself a Fool,
And know he trails his Mark of Ridicule.
Horace.
Great Stoic, so may better Bargains raise
Your ruin'd Fortune, tell me, if you please,
Since Follies are thus various in their Kind,
To what dear Madness am I most inclin'd.
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Damas.
What! did Agave then suspect her Brain,
When by a Bacchanalian Frenzy led
In her own Hand she carried her Son's Head?
Horace.
Since we must yield to Truth, 'tis here confest,
I am a Fool; with Madness too possest,
But since my Mind's distemper'd, if you please,
What seems the proper Kind of my Disease?
Damas.
First that you build, and scarce of two foot Height,
Mimic the mighty Stature of the Great.
While you, forsooth, a Dwarf in Arms deride,
His haughty Spirit and gigantic Stride,
Yet are you less ridiculous, who dare,
Meer Mimic, with Mæcenas to compare?
Mimic the mighty Stature of the Great.
While you, forsooth, a Dwarf in Arms deride,
His haughty Spirit and gigantic Stride,
Yet are you less ridiculous, who dare,
Meer Mimic, with Mæcenas to compare?
Perchance, a Mother-Frog had stroll'd abroad,
When a fell Ox upon her young ones trod;
Yet one alone escap'd, who thus exprest
The doleful News—“Ah me! a monstrous Beast
“My Brothers hath destroy'd.” How large? she cries,
And swelling forth—was this the Monster's Size?
Then larger grows—What! is he larger still?
When more and more she strives her Bulk to fill;
“Nay, though you burst, you ne'er shall be so great.”
No idle Image, Horace, of thy State.
Your Verses too; that Oil, which feeds the Flame;
If ever Bard was wise, be thine the Name.
That horrid Rage of Temper—
When a fell Ox upon her young ones trod;
Yet one alone escap'd, who thus exprest
The doleful News—“Ah me! a monstrous Beast
“My Brothers hath destroy'd.” How large? she cries,
And swelling forth—was this the Monster's Size?
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When more and more she strives her Bulk to fill;
“Nay, though you burst, you ne'er shall be so great.”
No idle Image, Horace, of thy State.
Your Verses too; that Oil, which feeds the Flame;
If ever Bard was wise, be thine the Name.
That horrid Rage of Temper—
Horace.
Yet have done?
Damas.
That vast Expence—
Horace.
Good Stoic, mind your own.
Damas.
Those thousand furious Passions for the Fair—
Horace.
Thou mightier Fool, inferior Ideots spare.
| A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace | |