The works of Horace, translated into verse With a prose interpretation, for the help of students. And occasional notes. By Christopher Smart ... In four volumes |
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| II. |
 | III. |
| 1. | THE FIRST BOOK OF THE SATIRES OF HORACE. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| 2. |
| IV. |
 | The works of Horace, translated into verse |  |
THE FIRST BOOK OF THE SATIRES OF HORACE.
3
SATIRE I.
[MÆcenas, whence is this caprice]
He inveighs in the first place against the depraved practice of men, by which it happens that they are never contented in their own station, nor can please themselves by their own determinations, but always prize those of other men. He then takes occasion to be particularly severe upon avarice.
That mortals cannot live in peace?
But their own lot of life disclaim,
Whether by choice, or chance it came,
And give the rest invidious praise!—
O happy merchants! (full of days
5
To which the merchant-man replies,
His ship by the south-wind distress't,
The military life is best;
The troops engage, and in a breath
Glad triumph comes, or instant death.
The lawyer, when his clients knock,
At the first crowing of the cock,
Cries up the country squire, who raves
That all but citizens are slaves,
When from his home he's forc'd to dance
Attendance on recognizance:
So many cases of this kind
Are found, that they wou'd break the wind
Of talking Fabius to recite;
But lest I tire your patience quite—
Observe—suppose some pow'r divine
Shou'd say, I will to each assign
The part, he chuses—I decree
The soldier shall a merchant be,
And he a counsellor of late
Shall have the country squire's estate—
Do you come here to shift the scene,
And you go there—why what do you mean!
They hesitate with all their hearts
Tho' in their pow'r to change their parts.
What cause now therefore can they show,
But Jupiter shou'd puff and blow
7
He'll not consent to hear their pray'r.
But to go on and not to smile,
Like some who use a waggish stile.
(Tho' what forbids a man, forsooth,
At once to laugh and speak the truth)
As fondling masters treat their boys
By giving sugar-plumbs and toys,
That they the better may go on,
Their grammar-rudiments to con.
However, raillery apart,
Let us the serious matters start.
He that with ploughshare cleaves the clod,
The treach'rous lawyer doom'd to plod,
The soldier and the tars at sea,
Who boldly sail thro' each degree,
Assert th'intention of their deed,
Is that in age they may recede
To peace, and to a plenteous board,
When once they've treasur'd up their hoard.
Ev'n as the ant (whose toiling might
As most exemplary we cite)
Drags with her mouth all she can reap,
And adds to her constructed heap,
Not unappriz'd, nor unprepar'd
How future matters must be squar'd.
However, she will not appear,
When once Aquarius damps the year,
9
The goods her patient toil procur'd.
Whilst then no summer-heat can tire,
Nor winter, ocean, sword, nor fire,
Divert you from the quest of gain;
And you all obstacles disdain,
So you can make your point in view,
That none shall have more wealth than you.
What fruit (inform me) can it bear,
That with that tim'rous over-care
Gold, silver, in immod'rate wealth
You hide up in a hole by stealth.
You answer that a lib'ral use
Will sure to nothing all reduce—
But without use what is the rank,
Or what the beauty of the bank?
Suppose your threshing-floor supply
An hundred thousand bowls of rye,
Your belly will demand no more
Than mine, of all this mighty store;
As if, 'mongst slaves, you shou'd be sped,
Like Esop, with a load of bread,
Not one crumb more to you wou'd fall,
Than him, who carried none at all.
What does it boot to him that lives
Within the prescript nature gives,
Whether he till an hundred rood,
Or thousand acres for his food.
But 'tis a pretty thing you say
With a great capitol to play—
11
Such things, as for our purpose make,
Our garrets why shou'd you despise
Compar'd with your great granaries!
As if desirous, when a dry,
Of but a jug or glass, you cry;
I'd rather on the river's brink
Than from this little fountain drink.
Hence they, that Aufidus approach,
Too large a quantity to broach,
Are hurried down the rapid fall
By him, that swallows banks and all.
While they that want not unto waste
Will free from mud their water taste;
Nor, as a needless draught they crave,
Will lose their lives within the wave.
But most thro' false desires unwise
Urge, no finances will suffice;
For wealth is character and name,
And, as your riches, such your fame.
What can one do with such as these?
Let them be wretched, if they please;
According as the tale is told—
A churl of Athens, full of gold,
Was wont to scorn the people thus—
The world may hiss and make a fuss,
But I applaud myself the more,
Whilst I at home my bags explore.
When thirsty Tantalus wou'd quaff,
The stream eludes his lips—you laugh—
13
The story of your life's the same.
O'er bags, which from all hands you scrape,
You cannot sleep, but stare and gape,
Compell'd the plenty to refuse,
As tho' 'twere sacrilege to use;
Nor can they other joy supply,
Than pictures to amuse the eye.
What know you not the real worth
Of money is, its help on earth—
Buy bread, buy herbs, a flask of wine,
To which you likewise may subjoin
Such other articles beside,
As nature grieves to be denied.
But to keep watching and half-dead,
Both night and day to be in dread,
Of thieves, and fire, and slaves, lest they
Shou'd rob the house, and run away.
Such wealth with such a life endure,
O rather keep me ever poor!
—But if one's body shou'd be seiz'd
With cold, or any way diseas'd,
So that you cannot stir about,
You have a friend to help you out,
To bring you medicines, to call in
The doctor, that your loving kin
And children may again enjoy
Your company—nor wife, nor boy
Desire your life—both small and great,
Male, female, all your neighbours hate
15
That no one should good-will exchange,
With one so worthless as to prize
His pelf, above all social ties.
But wou'd you gain and keep your friends,
Whom nature without labour sends,
You'd lose your toil in that respect
By their refractory neglect:
As who shou'd take an ass to grace
The field, and enter for the race.
Put then a period to pursuit,
And how much more abundant fruit,
You from your diligence possess,
Dread want and poverty the less;
And cease from all this toil of thought,
That being found, for which you sought:
Nor do with your ill-gotten store
As one Umidius did of yore,
Who was (the tale will soon be told)
So rich, as ev'n to measure gold;
And yet for fear that he shou'd fast,
Clad, like a slave, unto his last.
But him, the flow'r of Tyndar's breed,
A woman he had lately freed,
With a good cleaver split in twain—
What part must then a man sustain!
17
Shall I like Nomentanus rake?—
Now you are going on to fight
With things, by nature opposite—
Commanded not to be a sneak,
You're not enjoin'd all bounds to break;
There is a medium to be had,
No doubt, 'twixt staring and stark mad.
To all things there's a mean assign'd,
And certain bounderies defin'd,
From which remov'd on either hand,
True rectitude can never stand.
But to return—what are there none
Dislike their lot, but churls alone?
Nor for another's calling votes,
Nor grutches of his neighbour's goats,
And scruples to compare his state
With thousands more unfortunate!
But still is anxious to amass
What one or other may surpass:
When from the goal the coursers clear
The whirling car—the charioteer
Rushes on him that foremost speeds,
But scorns what he himself precedes.
And hence it is we rarely find
A man so perfectly resign'd,
As to declare this life he leaves,
A guest, that to the full receives:
19
I've dipt in blear-eyed Crispin's ink,
And stol'n my work from his 'scrutore,
I will not add a sentence more.
A woman, who was in the spirit of Clytemnestra, the daughter of Tyndarus, who killed Agamemnon with an axe.
21
SATIRE II.
[Each minstrel, quack, and strolling play'r]
By examples he confirms the adage: “while fools avoid vices, they run into the opposite extreams.”
Each mine, and scrub is in despair,
And with their ragged race deplore,
Tigellius now can sing no more.
The truth is, he was very good,
And lib'ral to the brother-hood.
Another, lest he comes to shame,
Dreads such a spendthrift's very name;
So close, he will not give a friend
What cold and hunger may defend.
Another, if you ask him why
His grandsire's, father's fortunes fly,
While cash he borrows but to waste,
And gratify his dainty taste,
He answers, he wou'd not be deem'd
Mean-spirited—which is esteem'd
By some as matter worthy fame,
By some of obloquy and blame.
Fufidius, rich in free-hold land,
And money lent at the best hand,
Wou'd not be call'd a thief or rake.—
He from the capital will take
23
And the more desperate and frail
A man in circumstance is found,
Or life, the more he will be ground.
He hunts for names, and lies in wait
For youths arriv'd at man's estate,
Who just from rigid guardians came—
At this what man will not exclaim,
O sov'reign Jove!—But he we'll say,
Speeds in proportion to his pay,
While it is out of human creed
How much himself he will not heed;
So that the father, whom we see
Presented in the comedy,
And tortur'd at his booby's flight
Was not in such a wretched plight.
Now if you wou'd inquire, my friends,
To what this dissertation tends—
“Why fools by ill concerted schemes,
“Shun vice for opposite extremes!”
25
SATIRE III.
[This is the fault of all the quire]
First he calls those to account, who while they wink at their own vices, are quick-sighted at discovering those of others—He then shews, that, after the example of lovers and parents, in friendship small failings shou'd be cover'd. To conclude, he digresses to a refutation of that stoic paradox, in which all defaults are said to be equal.
This is the fault of all the quire,
They will not sing at your desire,
But, if you never beg a song
They'll keep a quav'ring all day long.
Tigellius, that Sardinian spark,
Was a great proof of this remark,
Had Cæsar, whose undoubted sway
Might have compell'd him to obey,
Pleaded, to make him shew his tone,
His father's friendship and his own,
He wou'd not yet with all have sped—
But did he take it in his head,
A bacchanalian catch he'd grace,
From highest pitch to lowest bass;
Or every note to every string,
From egg to apple wou'd he ring.
This man had not the least degree
Of stedfast uniformity.
Now wou'd he run as from a foe,
And now with solemn pace and slow,
As Juno's sacrifice he bore—
Now with two hundred slaves or more
He liv'd, and now with hardly ten—
One while of kings and mighty men
Was all his talk—another while
Submissive in this humble stile—
“A three leg'd stool let me procure,
“A little salt that's clean and pure,
“A gown too, which tho' coarse and old,
“May serve to keep me from the cold;
A million had you giv'n outright
To this same philosophic wight,
So full of thrift and of content,
In five days every festerce went.
Each night he sat up, till 'twas day,
And snored the sunshine all the way,
Never was heard of such an elf,
So much at variance with himself.
But here a friend his voice exalts,
And asks me if I have no faults—
“Why yes I have, and, if you please,
“At least about as bad as these”—
At absent Novius Mænius rail'd,
When thus a chap his ear assail'd,
To your own failings are you blind,
Or wou'd you cozen all mankind!
Cries Mænius, I can soon excuse
Myself for all my selfish views—
This is a foolish vicious love,
Whose partial way we should reprove,
Since you wou'd wink with both your eyes
On all your own impurities,
Why when your neighbours mis-demean,
As eagle or as dragon keen
Do you inspect.—You may depend
That in his turn each injur'd friend
Will like to do the same by you,
As sharp and as censorious too.
They will not sing at your desire,
But, if you never beg a song
They'll keep a quav'ring all day long.
Tigellius, that Sardinian spark,
Was a great proof of this remark,
Had Cæsar, whose undoubted sway
Might have compell'd him to obey,
Pleaded, to make him shew his tone,
His father's friendship and his own,
He wou'd not yet with all have sped—
But did he take it in his head,
A bacchanalian catch he'd grace,
From highest pitch to lowest bass;
Or every note to every string,
From egg to apple wou'd he ring.
This man had not the least degree
Of stedfast uniformity.
27
And now with solemn pace and slow,
As Juno's sacrifice he bore—
Now with two hundred slaves or more
He liv'd, and now with hardly ten—
One while of kings and mighty men
Was all his talk—another while
Submissive in this humble stile—
“A three leg'd stool let me procure,
“A little salt that's clean and pure,
“A gown too, which tho' coarse and old,
“May serve to keep me from the cold;
A million had you giv'n outright
To this same philosophic wight,
So full of thrift and of content,
In five days every festerce went.
Each night he sat up, till 'twas day,
And snored the sunshine all the way,
Never was heard of such an elf,
So much at variance with himself.
But here a friend his voice exalts,
And asks me if I have no faults—
“Why yes I have, and, if you please,
“At least about as bad as these”—
At absent Novius Mænius rail'd,
When thus a chap his ear assail'd,
To your own failings are you blind,
Or wou'd you cozen all mankind!
Cries Mænius, I can soon excuse
Myself for all my selfish views—
29
Whose partial way we should reprove,
Since you wou'd wink with both your eyes
On all your own impurities,
Why when your neighbours mis-demean,
As eagle or as dragon keen
Do you inspect.—You may depend
That in his turn each injur'd friend
Will like to do the same by you,
As sharp and as censorious too.
A certain man's too prone to rage,
Not well adapted to engage
With the shrewd witlings of the town,
And may be laugh'd at, that his gown
On his rough person losely flows,
With shoes scarce cleaving to his toes.
But he is good to that degree,
There is no better man than he,
Your friend, and under this disguise
A most stupendous genius lies.
Then fift yourself, and make essay,
If nature, or an evil way,
Have sown no undiscover'd seeds
Of vice, for 'mongst the other weeds,
The fern, that shou'd be burnt, will yield
His crop, in each uncultur'd field.
Not well adapted to engage
With the shrewd witlings of the town,
And may be laugh'd at, that his gown
On his rough person losely flows,
With shoes scarce cleaving to his toes.
But he is good to that degree,
There is no better man than he,
Your friend, and under this disguise
A most stupendous genius lies.
Then fift yourself, and make essay,
If nature, or an evil way,
Have sown no undiscover'd seeds
Of vice, for 'mongst the other weeds,
The fern, that shou'd be burnt, will yield
His crop, in each uncultur'd field.
But to forearm in some respects—
E'en as a mistress's defects
Deceive at least, if not delight
The lover—or (a case to cite)
Balbinus doats upon the wen
Of his dear Agna—O that men
Wou'd thus in friendship be to blame,
Till Virtue found an honest name
For such a fault—let us be mild
To friends, as parents to a child;
And not for blemishes annoy—
The father calls his squinting boy
A leering archer full of fun,
And if a man has got a son,
Like Sisyphus, but two-feet tall,
Why him his bantam will he call.
One crooked leg'd, with fondling whine,
He ranks as of the Vari-line;
And if club-footed, then he smiles,
And of the house of Scaurus stiles.
One lives too thrifty, let him be
Your fav'rite for frugality:
Another's light and apt to boast,
He of his humour makes the most
To entertain—another's rude
To take large freedom, and intrude,
Let him be call'd sincere and brave—
Another's hot, and giv'n to rave,
But he's a man of spirit still—
For such ways gain and keep good-will—
But we the virtues ev'n invert,
On purest vessels throwing dirt.
A man of probity we find
As guilty of an abject mind;
If one amongst us too is slow,
On him the blockhead we bestow.
Another's cautious of a snare,
Nor ever lays his bosom bare
To bad men (as he lives in times
With envy fraught and thriving crimes)
Him stead of prudent and discrete
We term a man of dark deceit.
If one is unreserv'd and free
To such familiarity,
As I with you, Mæcenas, use,
And interrupt you, when you muse,
Or read—with any kind of prate
Intrusive or importunate—
At such a guest they take offence
And swear the man wants common sense.
How injudiciously, alas!
A law against ourselves we pass;
For no one without faults is bred,
Who has the fewest, is the head.
When my dear friend (as justice pleads)
Weighs 'gainst my bad my better deeds,
Let him, if he wou'd win my heart,
Incline unto the major part,
If such indeed my virtues prove,
Then in requital of his love,
The self-same scale shall be applied,
Whene'er he's summon'd to be tried.
He that requires his humpt-back shape
Shou'd his friends ridicule escape,
May certainly himself exhort
To wink upon his neighbour's wart.
'Tis equal, who for pardon sues
Shou'd not in turn, that grace refuse.
E'en as a mistress's defects
Deceive at least, if not delight
The lover—or (a case to cite)
31
Of his dear Agna—O that men
Wou'd thus in friendship be to blame,
Till Virtue found an honest name
For such a fault—let us be mild
To friends, as parents to a child;
And not for blemishes annoy—
The father calls his squinting boy
A leering archer full of fun,
And if a man has got a son,
Like Sisyphus, but two-feet tall,
Why him his bantam will he call.
One crooked leg'd, with fondling whine,
He ranks as of the Vari-line;
And if club-footed, then he smiles,
And of the house of Scaurus stiles.
One lives too thrifty, let him be
Your fav'rite for frugality:
Another's light and apt to boast,
He of his humour makes the most
To entertain—another's rude
To take large freedom, and intrude,
Let him be call'd sincere and brave—
Another's hot, and giv'n to rave,
But he's a man of spirit still—
For such ways gain and keep good-will—
But we the virtues ev'n invert,
On purest vessels throwing dirt.
A man of probity we find
As guilty of an abject mind;
33
On him the blockhead we bestow.
Another's cautious of a snare,
Nor ever lays his bosom bare
To bad men (as he lives in times
With envy fraught and thriving crimes)
Him stead of prudent and discrete
We term a man of dark deceit.
If one is unreserv'd and free
To such familiarity,
As I with you, Mæcenas, use,
And interrupt you, when you muse,
Or read—with any kind of prate
Intrusive or importunate—
At such a guest they take offence
And swear the man wants common sense.
How injudiciously, alas!
A law against ourselves we pass;
For no one without faults is bred,
Who has the fewest, is the head.
When my dear friend (as justice pleads)
Weighs 'gainst my bad my better deeds,
Let him, if he wou'd win my heart,
Incline unto the major part,
If such indeed my virtues prove,
Then in requital of his love,
The self-same scale shall be applied,
Whene'er he's summon'd to be tried.
35
Shou'd his friends ridicule escape,
May certainly himself exhort
To wink upon his neighbour's wart.
'Tis equal, who for pardon sues
Shou'd not in turn, that grace refuse.
In fine, since wrath amongst the rest
Of crimes, that foolish men infest,
Cannot be totally suppress'd;
Why does not human reason rate
Things by its measure and its weight,
And only punish faults, as far
As guilt or provocation are.
If any one his slave shou'd slay,
Who when he's bid to take away,
Sequesters one half-eaten fish,
Or licks warm broth from out the dish,
His madness wou'd give more offence,
Than Labeo, with all men of sense.
But greater still 'gainst reason's laws
Are follies play'd without a cause.
Your friend has done some slight affair,
Which if you don't forgive and spare,
You shou'd be call'd severe and sour,
And yet you from his presence scow'r,
With equal hatred and dismay
As Druso's debtor on the day,
Who when the cruel Calends come,
If neither int'rest nor the sum
He can procure, by hook or crook,
Must hear him read his doom's-day-book,
His servile throat in posture put,
As if preferring to be cut.
Of crimes, that foolish men infest,
Cannot be totally suppress'd;
Why does not human reason rate
Things by its measure and its weight,
And only punish faults, as far
As guilt or provocation are.
If any one his slave shou'd slay,
Who when he's bid to take away,
Sequesters one half-eaten fish,
Or licks warm broth from out the dish,
His madness wou'd give more offence,
Than Labeo, with all men of sense.
But greater still 'gainst reason's laws
Are follies play'd without a cause.
Your friend has done some slight affair,
Which if you don't forgive and spare,
You shou'd be call'd severe and sour,
And yet you from his presence scow'r,
With equal hatred and dismay
As Druso's debtor on the day,
Who when the cruel Calends come,
If neither int'rest nor the sum
37
Must hear him read his doom's-day-book,
His servile throat in posture put,
As if preferring to be cut.
Suppose my friend has by his ale
Been forc'd upon my couch to stale,
Or at my board a dish has broke
Which for Evander was bespoke.
For this—or when the servants bring
A chicken, shou'd devour a wing,
Which to my seat was rather near,
Shall he for this be held less dear?
What can I do, if he should steal,
Or things of secrecy reveal,
Or break his word?—They who decry
All crimes as of an equal die,
Are gravel'd, when you come to facts—
For other laws good sense enacts,
Sound morals, and convenience too,
Source of all justice, that we do.
When first upon the new-form'd earth
Poor mortals crawl'd out from their birth,
A race but just remov'd from brutes,
For caves and caverns their disputes
They did with nails and fists decide,
But by degrees their clubs they plied,
And at the last with arms they fought,
Which long experience forg'd and taught,
Till words at length, and names they found,
To ascertain their thoughts by sound.
Hence they began from war to pause,
To wall in towns, and 'stablish laws,
That theft should not unpunish'd be,
Nor rapine, nor adultery,
For long before fair Helen's charms
Had woman set the world in arms,
But all those savages are fled,
And all without memorial dead,
Who, like the tenants of the wild,
With vagrant lust themselves defil'd,
As still the strong the weaker slew,
And did as bulls for heifers do.
Now laws were a preventive aid
For fear of man's injustice made,
This all must evidence, who mind
Each age, and hist'ry of mankind:
Nor can mere nature sep'rate right
From wrong, by as distinct a light,
As she can sever good from ill,
Or what shou'd check, or tempt the will:
Nor e'er can reason make it plain,
That he's as much a rogue in grain,
Who breaks for sprouts his neigbour's hedge,
As he that does a sacrilege.
Some certain rule then let us state
To make chastisement adequate,
Lest him you scourge severe and rash,
Who scarce deserves a single lash,
For I do not the least surmise,
That you will with the rod chastise
Him that deserves more dreadful doom,
Since your assertions so presume,
That theft is of as great a die
In guilt, as high-way robbery,
And threaten you wou'd cut off all
Defaults alike, both great and small,
If man wou'd give you sov'reign sway—
So much for what the Stoicks say.
Been forc'd upon my couch to stale,
Or at my board a dish has broke
Which for Evander was bespoke.
For this—or when the servants bring
A chicken, shou'd devour a wing,
Which to my seat was rather near,
Shall he for this be held less dear?
What can I do, if he should steal,
Or things of secrecy reveal,
Or break his word?—They who decry
All crimes as of an equal die,
Are gravel'd, when you come to facts—
For other laws good sense enacts,
Sound morals, and convenience too,
Source of all justice, that we do.
When first upon the new-form'd earth
Poor mortals crawl'd out from their birth,
A race but just remov'd from brutes,
For caves and caverns their disputes
They did with nails and fists decide,
But by degrees their clubs they plied,
39
Which long experience forg'd and taught,
Till words at length, and names they found,
To ascertain their thoughts by sound.
Hence they began from war to pause,
To wall in towns, and 'stablish laws,
That theft should not unpunish'd be,
Nor rapine, nor adultery,
For long before fair Helen's charms
Had woman set the world in arms,
But all those savages are fled,
And all without memorial dead,
Who, like the tenants of the wild,
With vagrant lust themselves defil'd,
As still the strong the weaker slew,
And did as bulls for heifers do.
Now laws were a preventive aid
For fear of man's injustice made,
This all must evidence, who mind
Each age, and hist'ry of mankind:
Nor can mere nature sep'rate right
From wrong, by as distinct a light,
As she can sever good from ill,
Or what shou'd check, or tempt the will:
Nor e'er can reason make it plain,
That he's as much a rogue in grain,
41
As he that does a sacrilege.
Some certain rule then let us state
To make chastisement adequate,
Lest him you scourge severe and rash,
Who scarce deserves a single lash,
For I do not the least surmise,
That you will with the rod chastise
Him that deserves more dreadful doom,
Since your assertions so presume,
That theft is of as great a die
In guilt, as high-way robbery,
And threaten you wou'd cut off all
Defaults alike, both great and small,
If man wou'd give you sov'reign sway—
So much for what the Stoicks say.
If he is rich who's wise withall,
Tho' but a cobler in his stall,
The beauty of the world alone,
And king upon an endless throne,
Why pray for what is in your hand?
You do not, surely, understand,
What he, the sire of all our sect,
Crysippus says in this respect,
“The wise-man makes himself no sole,
“Yet is a cobler on the whole.”
How's this—Hermogenes, tho' dumb,
His voice can raise and harp can thrum,
Alfenus thus, in lawyer's gown,
His awl, and implements laid down.
Himself a cobler still affirms—
The stoick on no other terms
Is jack-of-all-trades and a king—
The boys, that round you form a ring,
Will pluck your beard, and by the press
You shall be brought to last distress,
And snarl and burst your lungs in vain
Unless your staff the mob restrain
Supreme of monarchs—but to wave
Prolixity—while you shall lave
Your body in the farthing bath,
Crysippus following your path,
And my dear friends shall set aside
The things, in which my feet shall slide,
Why in return I shall enlarge
My heart, to give them their discharge.
In private life for more the thing,
Than your imaginary king.
Tho' but a cobler in his stall,
The beauty of the world alone,
And king upon an endless throne,
Why pray for what is in your hand?
You do not, surely, understand,
What he, the sire of all our sect,
Crysippus says in this respect,
“The wise-man makes himself no sole,
“Yet is a cobler on the whole.”
How's this—Hermogenes, tho' dumb,
His voice can raise and harp can thrum,
43
His awl, and implements laid down.
Himself a cobler still affirms—
The stoick on no other terms
Is jack-of-all-trades and a king—
The boys, that round you form a ring,
Will pluck your beard, and by the press
You shall be brought to last distress,
And snarl and burst your lungs in vain
Unless your staff the mob restrain
Supreme of monarchs—but to wave
Prolixity—while you shall lave
Your body in the farthing bath,
Crysippus following your path,
And my dear friends shall set aside
The things, in which my feet shall slide,
Why in return I shall enlarge
My heart, to give them their discharge.
In private life for more the thing,
Than your imaginary king.
Of such valuable antiquity that it might be supposed to have belonged to Evander, who entertained Æneas upon his landing in Italy.
The understanding of Horace was so benighted, that he supposed language to be gradual, and of human invention—nevertheless The Lord is the Word, and all good words proceed from him, as sure nonsense and cant are derivable from the Adversary.
45
SATIRE IV.
[Cratinus, Eupolis, with these]
He asserts that Lucillius was particularly tart, by following the ancient comedy amongst the Grecians— However he shews his own writings are not to be read in the same view, since (as they were satirical in the general) the most part of mankind conscious of some vice or other, understand themselves to be hinted at therein. Otherwise he professes himself clear of virulence, and to deter men from vice with pleasantry, and by a fatherly kind of chastisement.
Cratinus, Eupolis, with these
And others Aristophanes,
Who made their comedies of yore
If any man on any score,
Was worthy of a shameful note
They branded him, in what they wrote,
With perfect freedom and by name,
As thief, adult'rous son of shame,
Cut-throat, or any otherwise
Disgrac'd—with them Lucillius vies,
On them depends upon the whole
By changing feet, and measure droll;
Keen—but still making verses halt,
For this was his peculiar fault,
Two hundred verses in an hour
(As a great work to shew his pow'r)
Oft wou'd he dictate to his guest,
Still standing hip-hop for a jest.
Mean-time, while muddy was his lay,
There was, what one wou'd wish away—
Verbose—too indolent to bear
The toil of writing and the care,
That is the care of writing clean,
For much is not the thing I mean.
But here Crispinus' wrath I whet
To challenge me at any bet.
“Your tablets take, this instant take,
“A trial if you choose to make,
“Appoint your umpires, hour and place,
“To see who writes the greatest pace”—
The gods have done the best of all
To make my spirit poor and small,
Who seldom speak and then but spare,
While you may imitate the air,
That's in the leathern bellows pent,
There puffs and blows and is not spent,
Until the iron's soft and red—
The happy Fannius sure is sped,
Who in the library has thrust
Unbid, both manuscripts and bust.
While not a soul will read my verse
Who am too tim'rous to rehearse,
My works in publick—now the cause
Why few will give, this kind applause
Is that the major part are wrong—
Take whom you will from out the throng;
Or avarice perverts his ways,
Or desperate ambition sways.
One's mad upon his neighbour's wives,
In other filth some waste their lives.
This on his silver side-board glotes,
Albius on brazen statues doats:
One with his merchandize will run,
From eastern to the western sun,
Thro' every ill with sails unfurl'd,
Like dust that in the wind is whirl'd,
Rush headlong, lest a want should come
To take a farthing from his sum,
Or to enlarge his stock—all these
The muse alarms, the bards displease.
“There's hay upon his horn—fly, fly,
“Can he but raise a laugh, they cry,
“He'll not his father's failings brook,
“And, what's once enter'd in his book,
“To young and old he'll publick make
“Who come from bake house or the lake.”
And others Aristophanes,
Who made their comedies of yore
If any man on any score,
Was worthy of a shameful note
They branded him, in what they wrote,
With perfect freedom and by name,
As thief, adult'rous son of shame,
Cut-throat, or any otherwise
Disgrac'd—with them Lucillius vies,
On them depends upon the whole
By changing feet, and measure droll;
Keen—but still making verses halt,
For this was his peculiar fault,
Two hundred verses in an hour
(As a great work to shew his pow'r)
47
Still standing hip-hop for a jest.
Mean-time, while muddy was his lay,
There was, what one wou'd wish away—
Verbose—too indolent to bear
The toil of writing and the care,
That is the care of writing clean,
For much is not the thing I mean.
But here Crispinus' wrath I whet
To challenge me at any bet.
“Your tablets take, this instant take,
“A trial if you choose to make,
“Appoint your umpires, hour and place,
“To see who writes the greatest pace”—
The gods have done the best of all
To make my spirit poor and small,
Who seldom speak and then but spare,
While you may imitate the air,
That's in the leathern bellows pent,
There puffs and blows and is not spent,
Until the iron's soft and red—
The happy Fannius sure is sped,
Who in the library has thrust
Unbid, both manuscripts and bust.
While not a soul will read my verse
Who am too tim'rous to rehearse,
My works in publick—now the cause
Why few will give, this kind applause
Is that the major part are wrong—
Take whom you will from out the throng;
49
Or desperate ambition sways.
One's mad upon his neighbour's wives,
In other filth some waste their lives.
This on his silver side-board glotes,
Albius on brazen statues doats:
One with his merchandize will run,
From eastern to the western sun,
Thro' every ill with sails unfurl'd,
Like dust that in the wind is whirl'd,
Rush headlong, lest a want should come
To take a farthing from his sum,
Or to enlarge his stock—all these
The muse alarms, the bards displease.
“There's hay upon his horn—fly, fly,
“Can he but raise a laugh, they cry,
“He'll not his father's failings brook,
“And, what's once enter'd in his book,
“To young and old he'll publick make
“Who come from bake house or the lake.”
But come my refutation hear,
As I in my behalf appear.
First then I will myself reject
From men of the poetic sect;
'Tis not sufficient for the name,
That merely metre we can frame.
Now if a fellow writes like me
As near to prose, as verse can be,
You must not think he has the vein—
But one of a diviner strain,
Who has a genius and a tongue,
By which eternal things are sung;
On him this glorious praise confer—
Hence things of comic character
If fairly they can be giv'n out
As poems some have made a doubt:
Because both words, and things of course,
Have neither spirit, fire, or force;
Men talk, or, if from talk disjoin'd,
By measure of prosaic kind.
But yet you'll say the sire's in rage
Because his son the whores engage,
Who for their sakes neglects a wife,
And all the wealth and sweets of life,
A drunkard and (O shame to say)
With flambeaus in the blaze of day.
What? wou'd the loose Pomponius hear
One word less grand, and less severe,
Granting his father were alive
Hence 'twill not answer to contrive,
The verses in a style compleat,
All which, if you displace the feet,
A peasant in his wrath might say,
As well as Demea in the play,
If from those lines I now indite,
Or those Lucillius us'd to write,
The measure and the pause you take,
And the last words the former make,
You cou'd not find, but wholly lose
The members of the mangled muse
Not so if Ennius thus you use.
What time dire discord burst the bars,
And forc'd their iron ports of Mars.
So far of this—another place
Shall be reserv'd by me to trace
If comedy's by scene and plot
A poem fairly term'd or not.
But now I only shall debate,
Whether this kind you justly hate.
Sharp Salcius and Caprius hoarse,
As their indictment they enforce
Both to the gang great terror give,
But if a man discretely live,
He may contemn them both—Tho' you
Like Cœlus, and like Birrus too,
Upon the road have made full free,
I am not Caprius—fear not me.
To shop, nor stall my volumes come,
There for the sweaty mob to thumb,
Nor for Hermogenes to hum.
I never but to friends repeat,
Nor that, but when they much intreat;
Not any where to any croud—
Many there are, that read aloud
Ev'n in the market, or the springs
Where people bathe—when he that sings
May by the closeness of the place
Give to his voice a finer grace.
To coxcombs this a grateful task,
Who never have the sense to ask
About the purpose, or the time—
But here they brand me with the crime
Of hurting with a bad intent—
From whence can this 'gainst me be meant?
Is any then your voncher, say,
With whom I've liv'd unto this day?
He, who backbites his absent friend,
Nay more, who does not still defend
His fame, and stands on his behalf;
He, who wou'd raise a spiteful laugh,
Who no loquacity forbears,
And what he never saw declares,
And he, whose tongue is not controul'd
By what in confidence is told,
That fellow is a black in grain,
From him, O Roman youth, refrain.
You'll often see twelve guests repose
Upon three couches—one of those
Ere he has sup'd must needs asperse
All beings of the universe,
Except the man, that rules the roast,
And him, ev'n him he'll lash the most,
When Bacchus, who the truth reveals,
From his free heart all secrets steals.
This man to you, who hate a black,
Seems witty with a pretty knack.
If I one time upon a prank
Have said too frolicksome and frank
That while Rufillus clogs the sense,
Gorgonius has the goat's offence;
Is churlish envy, then my vice?
If any mention shou'd arise
Of things Petillus stole away,
Made in your presence—you wou'd say
The man thro' habit, to defend
Petillus, always was my friend,
And from a child we were as one,
Much for my asking has he done,
And I rejoice he lives in peace,
Because it was a strange release
He from the gallows lately had—
This is rank poyson very bad,
Sheer envy, which shall have no part
Or in my writings, or my heart,
If I can promise once for all
Or understand myself at all.
If ought too freely I have spoke,
Or been, perhaps, too much in joke,
Your kind indulgence you'll allow,
For that I shall inform you now.
The best of fathers taught me this,
That I shou'd keep from things amiss,
By certain shrewd remarks, he made—
Me, when he wanted to persuade
To thrift, and frugally to live,
Content with what he had to give;
“Do you not see (he wou'd observe)
“How Albius' son is like to starve,
“And Barrus too reduc'd and low—
“These are great documents to show
“The mis'ry of a substance spent.”
Whenever it was his intent
To fright me from loose girls (he cry'd)
“Let not Sectanus be your guide,”
Lest I should seek the wedded dame,
When I might have a lawful flame:
“Trebonius, hamper'd in the fact,
“Has not his character compact:
“Philosophy (says he) my son,
“May teach you what to seek and shun,
“And render reasons more than I,
“Let it suffice me to apply
“Old rules, traditionally gain'd,
“And keep your life and fame unstain'd,
“As long as you a tutor need;
“The riper age will soon succeed
“To strengthen every thought and limb,
“And then without your corks you'll swim.”
'Twas thus he form'd my tender mind,
And if he any thing enjoin'd,
“For this affair you have (says he)
“A laudable authority;”
Then wou'd he cite, the point to clench,
One of the sages of the bench.
But did he any thing restrain?—
“Can you (says he) a doubt maintain,
“But such a thing, in such a case,
“Is vain, and nothing but disgrace,
“Since He, or they are come to shame
“For doing of the very same!—
“As ev'ry neighbour's funeral frights
“Sick men with greedy appetites,
“And makes them spare themselves, for fear
“Their own interment should be near:
“So tender minds are often warn'd
“While others for their vice are scorn'd.”
As I in my behalf appear.
First then I will myself reject
From men of the poetic sect;
'Tis not sufficient for the name,
That merely metre we can frame.
Now if a fellow writes like me
As near to prose, as verse can be,
51
But one of a diviner strain,
Who has a genius and a tongue,
By which eternal things are sung;
On him this glorious praise confer—
Hence things of comic character
If fairly they can be giv'n out
As poems some have made a doubt:
Because both words, and things of course,
Have neither spirit, fire, or force;
Men talk, or, if from talk disjoin'd,
By measure of prosaic kind.
But yet you'll say the sire's in rage
Because his son the whores engage,
Who for their sakes neglects a wife,
And all the wealth and sweets of life,
A drunkard and (O shame to say)
With flambeaus in the blaze of day.
What? wou'd the loose Pomponius hear
One word less grand, and less severe,
Granting his father were alive
Hence 'twill not answer to contrive,
The verses in a style compleat,
All which, if you displace the feet,
A peasant in his wrath might say,
As well as Demea in the play,
If from those lines I now indite,
Or those Lucillius us'd to write,
53
And the last words the former make,
You cou'd not find, but wholly lose
The members of the mangled muse
Not so if Ennius thus you use.
What time dire discord burst the bars,
And forc'd their iron ports of Mars.
So far of this—another place
Shall be reserv'd by me to trace
If comedy's by scene and plot
A poem fairly term'd or not.
But now I only shall debate,
Whether this kind you justly hate.
Sharp Salcius and Caprius hoarse,
As their indictment they enforce
Both to the gang great terror give,
But if a man discretely live,
He may contemn them both—Tho' you
Like Cœlus, and like Birrus too,
Upon the road have made full free,
I am not Caprius—fear not me.
To shop, nor stall my volumes come,
There for the sweaty mob to thumb,
Nor for Hermogenes to hum.
I never but to friends repeat,
Nor that, but when they much intreat;
Not any where to any croud—
Many there are, that read aloud
55
Where people bathe—when he that sings
May by the closeness of the place
Give to his voice a finer grace.
To coxcombs this a grateful task,
Who never have the sense to ask
About the purpose, or the time—
But here they brand me with the crime
Of hurting with a bad intent—
From whence can this 'gainst me be meant?
Is any then your voncher, say,
With whom I've liv'd unto this day?
He, who backbites his absent friend,
Nay more, who does not still defend
His fame, and stands on his behalf;
He, who wou'd raise a spiteful laugh,
Who no loquacity forbears,
And what he never saw declares,
And he, whose tongue is not controul'd
By what in confidence is told,
That fellow is a black in grain,
From him, O Roman youth, refrain.
You'll often see twelve guests repose
Upon three couches—one of those
Ere he has sup'd must needs asperse
All beings of the universe,
Except the man, that rules the roast,
And him, ev'n him he'll lash the most,
57
From his free heart all secrets steals.
This man to you, who hate a black,
Seems witty with a pretty knack.
If I one time upon a prank
Have said too frolicksome and frank
That while Rufillus clogs the sense,
Gorgonius has the goat's offence;
Is churlish envy, then my vice?
If any mention shou'd arise
Of things Petillus stole away,
Made in your presence—you wou'd say
The man thro' habit, to defend
Petillus, always was my friend,
And from a child we were as one,
Much for my asking has he done,
And I rejoice he lives in peace,
Because it was a strange release
He from the gallows lately had—
This is rank poyson very bad,
Sheer envy, which shall have no part
Or in my writings, or my heart,
If I can promise once for all
Or understand myself at all.
If ought too freely I have spoke,
Or been, perhaps, too much in joke,
Your kind indulgence you'll allow,
For that I shall inform you now.
The best of fathers taught me this,
That I shou'd keep from things amiss,
59
Me, when he wanted to persuade
To thrift, and frugally to live,
Content with what he had to give;
“Do you not see (he wou'd observe)
“How Albius' son is like to starve,
“And Barrus too reduc'd and low—
“These are great documents to show
“The mis'ry of a substance spent.”
Whenever it was his intent
To fright me from loose girls (he cry'd)
“Let not Sectanus be your guide,”
Lest I should seek the wedded dame,
When I might have a lawful flame:
“Trebonius, hamper'd in the fact,
“Has not his character compact:
“Philosophy (says he) my son,
“May teach you what to seek and shun,
“And render reasons more than I,
“Let it suffice me to apply
“Old rules, traditionally gain'd,
“And keep your life and fame unstain'd,
“As long as you a tutor need;
“The riper age will soon succeed
“To strengthen every thought and limb,
“And then without your corks you'll swim.”
'Twas thus he form'd my tender mind,
And if he any thing enjoin'd,
“For this affair you have (says he)
“A laudable authority;”
61
One of the sages of the bench.
But did he any thing restrain?—
“Can you (says he) a doubt maintain,
“But such a thing, in such a case,
“Is vain, and nothing but disgrace,
“Since He, or they are come to shame
“For doing of the very same!—
“As ev'ry neighbour's funeral frights
“Sick men with greedy appetites,
“And makes them spare themselves, for fear
“Their own interment should be near:
“So tender minds are often warn'd
“While others for their vice are scorn'd.”
Thus instituted I am free
From vices of the first degree,
That post a mortal to his grave,
But small and venial faults I have;
And these, perhaps, maturer years,
Sincere advice of my compeers,
And due reflexions on the past
May totally reduce at last:
And in my bed, and when I stir,
I am not wanting to confer
Thus with myself, “this thing is well—
“By doing this I shall excell—
“By aiming at some certain end
“I shall be better with my friend—
“Such a transaction was oblique,
“Shall I then ever do the like?”—
All this unto myself I say—
When idle with my pen I play:
This is amongst those faults I class't
But as of an inferiour cast;
Which if you will not freely own
As pardonable, be it known,
That all the vast poetic band,
Now, more than ever, is at hand,
And like the Pharisee and Scribe
We'll force you to embrace our tribe.
From vices of the first degree,
That post a mortal to his grave,
But small and venial faults I have;
And these, perhaps, maturer years,
Sincere advice of my compeers,
And due reflexions on the past
May totally reduce at last:
And in my bed, and when I stir,
I am not wanting to confer
Thus with myself, “this thing is well—
“By doing this I shall excell—
“By aiming at some certain end
“I shall be better with my friend—
“Such a transaction was oblique,
“Shall I then ever do the like?”—
63
When idle with my pen I play:
This is amongst those faults I class't
But as of an inferiour cast;
Which if you will not freely own
As pardonable, be it known,
That all the vast poetic band,
Now, more than ever, is at hand,
And like the Pharisee and Scribe
We'll force you to embrace our tribe.
65
SATIRE V.
[Arriv'd from all the pomp and din]
He describes his journey from Rome to Brundusium, after the pattern of Lucillius, who had given an account of a party of his to the same place. He likewise gives a narrative what laughable matters had occurred in that expedition, amongst which the squabble between the two buffoons, Sarmentus and Messius, obtain the first place.
Arriv'd from all the pomp and din
Of Rome, Aricia took me in,
A guest but sorrily bestow'd;
But my companion on the road
Was Heliodorus, that fam'd Greek
Who teaches youth the art to speak.
To Apii-Forum thence we hied,
Where landlords sour and tars reside.
This journey which is but a day
For those that expedite their way,
Finding so many things to do
With idleness we split in two.
For them, that often choose to call,
The Appian way is best of all,
And here the water was so vile
I mortified my gut, the while
The company sat down to meat
And not without vexation eat.
Now night was bringing on the shade,
And all the signs of heav'n display'd;
Then with the tars our slaves begun,
A spice of their vociferous fun,
Which soon was answered by the crew—
“Why here, you sorry knaves bring to—
“You're cramming in the folks too fast,
“Three hundred are enough—avast!”
Now while their money they demand,
And mule is fasten'd to a stand,
An hour elaps'd—the plaguy gnats,
And frogs, that crowd the fenny flats,
Drive off repose—the muleteer
And waterman combin'd to clear
Their pipes, and on the charms enlarg'd
Of their dear girls, with drink o'ercharg'd,
Till the tir'd muleteer began
To sleep—the lazy waterman
Tyed the mule's tackle to a stone,
And sent her out to graze alone!
Then snored upon his back—the day
Now sprung, and we had made no way.
Then one more hot-brain'd than the rest
Leapt out, and being first possest
From willows of a sturdy tool,
Bang'd head and back of man and mule;
Till the fourth hour was more than past,
When we were set ashore at last.
Feronia, in thy marble vase
Each of us wash'd his hands and face,
And having din'd, three miles we creep
Beneath white Anxur's rocky steep.
Here both Mæcenas, and the great
Cocceius, were to come in state,
As they ambassadors were sent,
On an affair of high event,
Us'd separate friends to reunite.—
Here, I disorder'd in my sight,
With my black salve my eyes besmear'd—
Mæcenas during this appear'd,
Cocceius too, and Capito,
The most accomplish'd man I know,
And Antony's especial friend—
From hence our course we trav'lers bend,
And Fundi pass with much good will,
Where Luscus was the Prætor still,
Not without laughing at the tribe
Attending on this crazy scribe,
His robe, and laticlave withal,
And pan of incense in his hall;
From thence to Formiæ we roam,
Murena finding us an home,
And gen'rous Capito his cook;
Next day the brightest in the book
Arose, for Plotius, Varius came,
And Virgil of eternal name:
At Sinuessa these we met,
Of spirits so select a set,
Than which earth ne'er did bear or see,
More candid, or more dear to me.
Oh! what embraces all around,
What joy was at this meeting found;
There's nothing I would recommend,
In pref'rence to a pleasant friend.
With lodging next, the place that's nigh
Campania's bridge did us supply.
Purveyors brought us wood and salt,
For fear of suff'ring, on default:
From hence the mules their packs dispose
At Capua, e'er the damps arose.
Mæcenas goes to fives (as I
And Virgil on our couches lie)
For balls are bad things for the blind,
And those that are to coughs inclin'd.
Thence for Cocceius' seat we bear,
Where all good things abound, and where
The Caudian Inns are likewise built.—
Now, muse, deliver if thou wilt,
In a few words the war, enrag'd
Sarmentus and Cicerrus wag'd,
And from what ancestors in pride
These heroes with each other vied:
Cicerrus of grand Oscian race,
Sarmentus is not out of place,
On such illustrious pretence,
The gallant combat they commence:
Sarmentus first, “you seem disturb'd,
“Like a mad horse, that should be curb'd.”
We laugh'd, and Messius, “'Tis well said,”
Replied, and shook his furious head.
“O (says Sarmentus) what, if now
“Your horn was extant on your brow,
“Wou'd you atchieve—since ev'n thus maim'd
“You have at such distortions aim'd?”
Now a most lamentable scar
Did Messius' grisled forehead mar;
Then pelting him with jests apace,
Upon his rubicund grimace,
Where many a carbuncle and wart
Grew of the right Campanian sort;
“Pray for a dance, Sir, let me ask,
“The Cyclops jig—you need no mask,
“Nor can for buskins be concern'd.”—
To this Cicerrus much return'd.
Ask'd if his houshold Gods had got,
The chain he vow'd shou'd be there lot,
That, tho' by trade a scribbling knave,
He was not less his lady's slave;
He kindly beg'd to know for why
He took it in his head to fly,
Since that for one so lank and spare,
A pound of bread was plenteous fare.
In short this humorous event,
Prolong'd our meal in merriment.
Of Rome, Aricia took me in,
A guest but sorrily bestow'd;
But my companion on the road
Was Heliodorus, that fam'd Greek
Who teaches youth the art to speak.
To Apii-Forum thence we hied,
Where landlords sour and tars reside.
This journey which is but a day
For those that expedite their way,
Finding so many things to do
With idleness we split in two.
For them, that often choose to call,
The Appian way is best of all,
And here the water was so vile
I mortified my gut, the while
67
And not without vexation eat.
Now night was bringing on the shade,
And all the signs of heav'n display'd;
Then with the tars our slaves begun,
A spice of their vociferous fun,
Which soon was answered by the crew—
“Why here, you sorry knaves bring to—
“You're cramming in the folks too fast,
“Three hundred are enough—avast!”
Now while their money they demand,
And mule is fasten'd to a stand,
An hour elaps'd—the plaguy gnats,
And frogs, that crowd the fenny flats,
Drive off repose—the muleteer
And waterman combin'd to clear
Their pipes, and on the charms enlarg'd
Of their dear girls, with drink o'ercharg'd,
Till the tir'd muleteer began
To sleep—the lazy waterman
Tyed the mule's tackle to a stone,
And sent her out to graze alone!
Then snored upon his back—the day
Now sprung, and we had made no way.
Then one more hot-brain'd than the rest
Leapt out, and being first possest
From willows of a sturdy tool,
Bang'd head and back of man and mule;
Till the fourth hour was more than past,
When we were set ashore at last.
69
Each of us wash'd his hands and face,
And having din'd, three miles we creep
Beneath white Anxur's rocky steep.
Here both Mæcenas, and the great
Cocceius, were to come in state,
As they ambassadors were sent,
On an affair of high event,
Us'd separate friends to reunite.—
Here, I disorder'd in my sight,
With my black salve my eyes besmear'd—
Mæcenas during this appear'd,
Cocceius too, and Capito,
The most accomplish'd man I know,
And Antony's especial friend—
From hence our course we trav'lers bend,
And Fundi pass with much good will,
Where Luscus was the Prætor still,
Not without laughing at the tribe
Attending on this crazy scribe,
His robe, and laticlave withal,
And pan of incense in his hall;
From thence to Formiæ we roam,
Murena finding us an home,
And gen'rous Capito his cook;
Next day the brightest in the book
71
And Virgil of eternal name:
At Sinuessa these we met,
Of spirits so select a set,
Than which earth ne'er did bear or see,
More candid, or more dear to me.
Oh! what embraces all around,
What joy was at this meeting found;
There's nothing I would recommend,
In pref'rence to a pleasant friend.
With lodging next, the place that's nigh
Campania's bridge did us supply.
Purveyors brought us wood and salt,
For fear of suff'ring, on default:
From hence the mules their packs dispose
At Capua, e'er the damps arose.
Mæcenas goes to fives (as I
And Virgil on our couches lie)
For balls are bad things for the blind,
And those that are to coughs inclin'd.
Thence for Cocceius' seat we bear,
Where all good things abound, and where
The Caudian Inns are likewise built.—
Now, muse, deliver if thou wilt,
In a few words the war, enrag'd
Sarmentus and Cicerrus wag'd,
73
These heroes with each other vied:
Cicerrus of grand Oscian race,
Sarmentus is not out of place,
On such illustrious pretence,
The gallant combat they commence:
Sarmentus first, “you seem disturb'd,
“Like a mad horse, that should be curb'd.”
We laugh'd, and Messius, “'Tis well said,”
Replied, and shook his furious head.
“O (says Sarmentus) what, if now
“Your horn was extant on your brow,
“Wou'd you atchieve—since ev'n thus maim'd
“You have at such distortions aim'd?”
Now a most lamentable scar
Did Messius' grisled forehead mar;
Then pelting him with jests apace,
Upon his rubicund grimace,
Where many a carbuncle and wart
Grew of the right Campanian sort;
“Pray for a dance, Sir, let me ask,
“The Cyclops jig—you need no mask,
“Nor can for buskins be concern'd.”—
To this Cicerrus much return'd.
Ask'd if his houshold Gods had got,
The chain he vow'd shou'd be there lot,
That, tho' by trade a scribbling knave,
He was not less his lady's slave;
75
He took it in his head to fly,
Since that for one so lank and spare,
A pound of bread was plenteous fare.
In short this humorous event,
Prolong'd our meal in merriment.
To Beneventum thence next day,
Straight as a line, we made our way,
Where, while the meagre thrushes roast,
The flames nigh burnt our bustling host,
For thro' th'old kitchen widely spread,
Th'ascending flakes were making head:
Then trembling slaves you might have view'd,
Eager to have the fire subdued,
And guests, each greedy of his claim,
Snatching their supper from the flame.
From hence Apulia 'gan to show
The mountains I was born to know,
Which by Atabulus are swept,
And whence we never shou'd have crept,
Unless Trivicum's little sheds
Had found us where to lay our heads,
But not without such clouds of smoke,
As did the very tears provoke,
The hearth within a certain house,
Burning both leaves and wet green boughs.
Miles twenty-four from hence we ran
Bowl'd in post-chariots, for our plan
Was at a place to make our stay,
Whose name in verse we cannot say;
But 'tis describable when told,
By signs, for here the water's sold,
Water the cheapest thing elsewhere,
And here the worst—their bread is fair,
And good, so that upon the road
The trav'lers choose to take a load,
For full of grit Canusium sells
Her loaves, nor has she better wells:
Tho' Diomede of brave renown,
Chose this same place to build a town.
Here pensive Varius takes his leave
Of friends, that likewise weep and grieve.
To Rubi next we were convey'd,
All tir'd to death, as we had made
A longer journey thro' bad ways,
More tedious for the rainy days.
The morning was a little fair,
But then the ways more dirty were,
As far as Barium's fishy coast—
To Gnatia from this place we post,
Which is a city that arose
With all the water-nymphs its foes:
But here they much diversion made,
When us they wanted to persuade,
That incense in their sacred shrine
Melts without heating—I decline
All credit to the tale, the Jews
May think it genuine, if they choose.
For I then learnt the pow'rs above
Dwell in security and love;
Nor if a miracle be told
Of Nature, will it therefore hold
The Gods have sent it from the sky
By their profound anxiety—
Brundusium, which at length we gain,
Ends the long journey, and the strain.
Straight as a line, we made our way,
Where, while the meagre thrushes roast,
The flames nigh burnt our bustling host,
For thro' th'old kitchen widely spread,
Th'ascending flakes were making head:
Then trembling slaves you might have view'd,
Eager to have the fire subdued,
And guests, each greedy of his claim,
Snatching their supper from the flame.
From hence Apulia 'gan to show
The mountains I was born to know,
Which by Atabulus are swept,
And whence we never shou'd have crept,
Unless Trivicum's little sheds
Had found us where to lay our heads,
But not without such clouds of smoke,
As did the very tears provoke,
The hearth within a certain house,
Burning both leaves and wet green boughs.
Miles twenty-four from hence we ran
Bowl'd in post-chariots, for our plan
77
Whose name in verse we cannot say;
But 'tis describable when told,
By signs, for here the water's sold,
Water the cheapest thing elsewhere,
And here the worst—their bread is fair,
And good, so that upon the road
The trav'lers choose to take a load,
For full of grit Canusium sells
Her loaves, nor has she better wells:
Tho' Diomede of brave renown,
Chose this same place to build a town.
Here pensive Varius takes his leave
Of friends, that likewise weep and grieve.
To Rubi next we were convey'd,
All tir'd to death, as we had made
A longer journey thro' bad ways,
More tedious for the rainy days.
The morning was a little fair,
But then the ways more dirty were,
As far as Barium's fishy coast—
To Gnatia from this place we post,
Which is a city that arose
With all the water-nymphs its foes:
But here they much diversion made,
When us they wanted to persuade,
That incense in their sacred shrine
Melts without heating—I decline
79
May think it genuine, if they choose.
For I then learnt the pow'rs above
Dwell in security and love;
Nor if a miracle be told
Of Nature, will it therefore hold
The Gods have sent it from the sky
By their profound anxiety—
Brundusium, which at length we gain,
Ends the long journey, and the strain.
A little proud magistrate of a petty place, taking upon him the state of the Prætor, who was Lord Mayor of Rome.
They were obliged to do this for all persons sent upon public business. Horace therefore availed himself of Mæcenas his embassy.
81
SATIRE VI. To Mæcenas.
He finds fault with the futile opinion of the Romans, in regard to Nobility, which they estimated by antiquity of family, rather than merit, and did not willingly admit any one to the great offices of state without that qualification. That no one could envy him the friendship of Mæcenas, upon the same principle they envied the post of Tribune, since that was not a matter of chance, but obtained by the recommendation of virtue. And finally, he demonstrates that his lot in private life, is far happier than it could be in the magistracy.
Tho' of the Lydians, that came o'er
To settle on th'Etrurian shore,
Not one is of more rank than you,
And tho' your sire and grandsire too,
Reckon'd on either parent's side,
Did o'er such mighty hosts preside;
Yet, friend, the manners of the great
In this you do not imitate,
At low-born men to toss the nose,
Like me who from a free'd-man rose.
Because you will not grant that birth,
Tho' mean, can cancel real worth.
This is a truth that you maintain,
That long before the servile reign,
And pow'r of Tullius, many a one,
That merely from themselves begun,
Have both been held of good repute,
And the first honours gain'd to boot:
Whereas Lævinus, tho' the seed
Of great Poplicola, who freed
The Romans from proud Tarquin's sway,
Was not a jot the more in play.
Ev'n with that judge, so well you know,
The mob, who oftentimes bestow
Their honours on a worthless name,
And are the dupes of vulgar fame,
Amaz'd at titles, and a bust—
But how shall we ourselves adjust,
Rais'd from all vulgar thoughts so high?
For granting that the pop'lar cry,
Had rais'd Lævinus to the chair,
Rather than plac'd new Decius there,
Or granted that the Appian frown,
Had from the senate turn'd me down
As not of parents nobly born.
(And well I had deserv'd his scorn,
While not content in my own dress)
Yet, after all, we must confess,
Glory's gilt chariot drags along
The gen'rous, as the vulgar throng.
What profit, Tullius, wou'd you have
Shou'd you resume your laticlave;
And be a tribune, in that state
The public envy, public hate
Was greater than they could have been
In your reserv'd domestic scene.
For soon as an ambitious sot,
Has on his legs black buskins got,
With purple robe upon his back,
Such sounds as these his ears attack—
“Who's that, and who's his father, speak?”
As if a fellow shou'd be weak,
Like Barrus, whose desire and plan,
Is to be held a pretty man:
That he may tempt the ladies fair,
Still to enquire with anxious care,
What face, leg, foot, what teeth, and hair?
So he, that promises and swears
That Rome, and all the world's affairs,
That Italy, the public fanes,
Shall be protected by his pains,
Drives all mankind to be concern'd,
“Who's this, the man that is return'd!
“What is his father? was the dame
“That bore him of a virtuous fame?
“Shall Syrus, you, or Dama's heir,
“Or Dionysius' offspring dare,
“From the Tarpeian, men of Rome
“Throw down, or unto Cadmus doom
“My colleague—Nevius tho' must sit
“One step behind me, as if fit,
“For he was of my father's class—”
But do you therefore think to pass,
As Paulus or Messala may—
But here your colleague will huzza;
As if three funerals in the street,
Should with two hundred waggons meet,
And horns and trumpets too outvie,
His gift our choice to justify.
To settle on th'Etrurian shore,
Not one is of more rank than you,
And tho' your sire and grandsire too,
Reckon'd on either parent's side,
Did o'er such mighty hosts preside;
Yet, friend, the manners of the great
In this you do not imitate,
At low-born men to toss the nose,
Like me who from a free'd-man rose.
Because you will not grant that birth,
Tho' mean, can cancel real worth.
This is a truth that you maintain,
That long before the servile reign,
83
That merely from themselves begun,
Have both been held of good repute,
And the first honours gain'd to boot:
Whereas Lævinus, tho' the seed
Of great Poplicola, who freed
The Romans from proud Tarquin's sway,
Was not a jot the more in play.
Ev'n with that judge, so well you know,
The mob, who oftentimes bestow
Their honours on a worthless name,
And are the dupes of vulgar fame,
Amaz'd at titles, and a bust—
But how shall we ourselves adjust,
Rais'd from all vulgar thoughts so high?
For granting that the pop'lar cry,
Had rais'd Lævinus to the chair,
Rather than plac'd new Decius there,
Or granted that the Appian frown,
Had from the senate turn'd me down
As not of parents nobly born.
(And well I had deserv'd his scorn,
While not content in my own dress)
Yet, after all, we must confess,
Glory's gilt chariot drags along
The gen'rous, as the vulgar throng.
What profit, Tullius, wou'd you have
Shou'd you resume your laticlave;
And be a tribune, in that state
The public envy, public hate
85
In your reserv'd domestic scene.
For soon as an ambitious sot,
Has on his legs black buskins got,
With purple robe upon his back,
Such sounds as these his ears attack—
“Who's that, and who's his father, speak?”
As if a fellow shou'd be weak,
Like Barrus, whose desire and plan,
Is to be held a pretty man:
That he may tempt the ladies fair,
Still to enquire with anxious care,
What face, leg, foot, what teeth, and hair?
So he, that promises and swears
That Rome, and all the world's affairs,
That Italy, the public fanes,
Shall be protected by his pains,
Drives all mankind to be concern'd,
“Who's this, the man that is return'd!
“What is his father? was the dame
“That bore him of a virtuous fame?
“Shall Syrus, you, or Dama's heir,
“Or Dionysius' offspring dare,
“From the Tarpeian, men of Rome
“Throw down, or unto Cadmus doom
“My colleague—Nevius tho' must sit
“One step behind me, as if fit,
87
But do you therefore think to pass,
As Paulus or Messala may—
But here your colleague will huzza;
As if three funerals in the street,
Should with two hundred waggons meet,
And horns and trumpets too outvie,
His gift our choice to justify.
Now I return to my own case,
By all still reckon'd in disgrace;
Born of a free'd-man is their scorn,
And I am of a free'd-man born—
And this, Mæcenas, now they do,
Because I am a guest with you;
This too some years ago they said,
When me the Roman band obey'd.
The first is diff'rent from the last,
Because the honour that is past,
No man can envy in degree,
As that I am so well with thee,
So cautious to select such friends,
As unambitious worth commends.
I cannot think it merely chance,
That did me to this rank advance;
For it was not a lucky throw,
But Virgil, Varius, long ago;
Those flow'rs of friendship were the cause,
By fairly saying what I was.
When first into your presence led,
Some interrupted words I said;
For stiffled by an aukward shame,
Few words in broken accents came.
I did not at that time aspire,
To be the son of some great sire,
Nor drawn by Satureian steeds,
To traverse thro' my native meads;
But, what indeed I was, report—
You, as your custom is, was short
In what you answered—I retir'd;
And e'er the year was quite expir'd,
You call'd me to your gates again,
And bade me rank amongst your train.
'Tis a great honour I confess,
That I could have so much address,
With such a person to find grace,
Who picks the best, and spurns the base,
Preferring moral men, and sage,
To those of glorious parentage.
But if my nature has a spice,
Of here and there a little vice,
And otherwise is quite direct;
(Or if a critic should detect,
In some fair body certain flaws)
Yet if the crimes against the laws,
Or avarice or dirty ways,
No man can urge to my dispraise;
If with clean hands and conscience clear,
(That I may for myself appear)
I live, and to my friends am dear:
All this was from my father's hand,
Who poor, and with a little land,
Yet cou'd not bear to have me brought
To the low school, that Flavius taught;
Where hulking lads in clumsy gaite,
Bearing their satchel and their slate,
Sprung from tall soldiers, to a day
Went duly with their quarter's pay;
But dar'd to trust his boy of parts
At Rome, to learn those lib'ral arts,
Which every senator, or knight,
Prescribes his children—at the sight
Of all my slaves, and decent gown,
In such a great and populous town,
They might have thought that all this show,
Did from some patrimony flow.
Himself the wariest guard and spy,
Still to my masters had an eye:
In short, he kept me chaste and free,
(Which is fair virtue's first degree)
Both from all guilt, and obloquy.
Nor did he for his own part care
About the blame, that he might bear,
Shou'd I be forc'd to get my bread
As auctioneer, or even be sped
Like him upon the tax to go,
Nor had I murmur'd, were it so.
For this upon the whole you see,
More praise from all to him shou'd be,
And far more gratitude from me.
As long as I've my wits intire,
I can't repent of such a sire.
Wherefore I shall not act like some,
Who did not from good parents come,
And plead the fault was not their own—
Far wide of all such useless moan
Are both my language and my heart;
For could we from our years depart,
And reach the past of life, and choose
Our parents by ambitious views,
Content with mine, I'd not desire
Those, that to higher posts aspire.
For this, by all the revel rout,
I shou'd be deem'd as mad, no doubt;
But you, perhaps, wou'd hold me sane,
That from a burthen I refrain,
Which I'm unable to sustain.
For in that case, without debate
Things must be had in greater state,
More ceremonies than before,
With two or three companions more,
For fear I shou'd at home remain,
Or go abroad without a train.
Men slaves, with coaches and a stand
Of horses too, I must command.
Now can I go serene and cool,
More pleasant on my bob-tail mule,
E'en to Tarentum, if it suit,
With cloak-bag, and myself to boot.
Yet none alive in this respect,
Will stingyness to me object;
In such as Tullius, is thy due,
When five slaves only follow you,
A mighty prætor, as you are,
With wine, and necessary jar.
Sage senator, on this account,
Thee, and ten thousand I surmount.
Where'er I will is in my pow'r
To walk, and cheapen greens and flow'r.
The Circus, where they trick and thieve,
And Forum I frequent at eve.
The temples duly I attend,
Then homewards make my journey's end;
And take my supper at my ease,
Of onions, pancakes, or of pease.
Three slaves the supper serve—at hand
Two large mugs, and a tumbler stand
Upon a marble slab, with ew'r
And bowl, and cruet mean and poor.
I go to sleep, without dismay,
That I must rise betimes next day,
And in my rambles stand the shock
Of Marsya's phiz, who tho' a block,
Still signifies with hideous stare,
That he cannot young Novius bear.
To the fourth hour I lay me down,
Then take a walk about the town;
Or my still privacy delight
By reading, or by what I write.
Then I take oil—but better chuse,
Then Natta robs the lamps to use.
But when the sun with fiercer beam
Warns me to seek the cooling stream,
I foil the dog-star's heat, and swim.
Next after dining in such wise,
As with an appetite to rise;
I lounge at home—such are the days
Of men, whom no ambition sways.
With these few comforts I console
Myself, more happy on the whole,
Than if my sire and grandsire both,
Had fairly took the Questor's oath.
By all still reckon'd in disgrace;
Born of a free'd-man is their scorn,
And I am of a free'd-man born—
And this, Mæcenas, now they do,
Because I am a guest with you;
This too some years ago they said,
When me the Roman band obey'd.
The first is diff'rent from the last,
Because the honour that is past,
No man can envy in degree,
As that I am so well with thee,
So cautious to select such friends,
As unambitious worth commends.
I cannot think it merely chance,
That did me to this rank advance;
For it was not a lucky throw,
But Virgil, Varius, long ago;
Those flow'rs of friendship were the cause,
By fairly saying what I was.
When first into your presence led,
Some interrupted words I said;
89
Few words in broken accents came.
I did not at that time aspire,
To be the son of some great sire,
Nor drawn by Satureian steeds,
To traverse thro' my native meads;
But, what indeed I was, report—
You, as your custom is, was short
In what you answered—I retir'd;
And e'er the year was quite expir'd,
You call'd me to your gates again,
And bade me rank amongst your train.
'Tis a great honour I confess,
That I could have so much address,
With such a person to find grace,
Who picks the best, and spurns the base,
Preferring moral men, and sage,
To those of glorious parentage.
But if my nature has a spice,
Of here and there a little vice,
And otherwise is quite direct;
(Or if a critic should detect,
In some fair body certain flaws)
Yet if the crimes against the laws,
Or avarice or dirty ways,
No man can urge to my dispraise;
If with clean hands and conscience clear,
(That I may for myself appear)
I live, and to my friends am dear:
91
Who poor, and with a little land,
Yet cou'd not bear to have me brought
To the low school, that Flavius taught;
Where hulking lads in clumsy gaite,
Bearing their satchel and their slate,
Sprung from tall soldiers, to a day
Went duly with their quarter's pay;
But dar'd to trust his boy of parts
At Rome, to learn those lib'ral arts,
Which every senator, or knight,
Prescribes his children—at the sight
Of all my slaves, and decent gown,
In such a great and populous town,
They might have thought that all this show,
Did from some patrimony flow.
Himself the wariest guard and spy,
Still to my masters had an eye:
In short, he kept me chaste and free,
(Which is fair virtue's first degree)
Both from all guilt, and obloquy.
Nor did he for his own part care
About the blame, that he might bear,
Shou'd I be forc'd to get my bread
As auctioneer, or even be sped
Like him upon the tax to go,
Nor had I murmur'd, were it so.
For this upon the whole you see,
More praise from all to him shou'd be,
And far more gratitude from me.
93
I can't repent of such a sire.
Wherefore I shall not act like some,
Who did not from good parents come,
And plead the fault was not their own—
Far wide of all such useless moan
Are both my language and my heart;
For could we from our years depart,
And reach the past of life, and choose
Our parents by ambitious views,
Content with mine, I'd not desire
Those, that to higher posts aspire.
For this, by all the revel rout,
I shou'd be deem'd as mad, no doubt;
But you, perhaps, wou'd hold me sane,
That from a burthen I refrain,
Which I'm unable to sustain.
For in that case, without debate
Things must be had in greater state,
More ceremonies than before,
With two or three companions more,
For fear I shou'd at home remain,
Or go abroad without a train.
Men slaves, with coaches and a stand
Of horses too, I must command.
Now can I go serene and cool,
More pleasant on my bob-tail mule,
E'en to Tarentum, if it suit,
With cloak-bag, and myself to boot.
95
Will stingyness to me object;
In such as Tullius, is thy due,
When five slaves only follow you,
A mighty prætor, as you are,
With wine, and necessary jar.
Sage senator, on this account,
Thee, and ten thousand I surmount.
Where'er I will is in my pow'r
To walk, and cheapen greens and flow'r.
The Circus, where they trick and thieve,
And Forum I frequent at eve.
The temples duly I attend,
Then homewards make my journey's end;
And take my supper at my ease,
Of onions, pancakes, or of pease.
Three slaves the supper serve—at hand
Two large mugs, and a tumbler stand
Upon a marble slab, with ew'r
And bowl, and cruet mean and poor.
I go to sleep, without dismay,
That I must rise betimes next day,
And in my rambles stand the shock
Of Marsya's phiz, who tho' a block,
Still signifies with hideous stare,
That he cannot young Novius bear.
To the fourth hour I lay me down,
Then take a walk about the town;
Or my still privacy delight
By reading, or by what I write.
97
Then Natta robs the lamps to use.
But when the sun with fiercer beam
Warns me to seek the cooling stream,
I foil the dog-star's heat, and swim.
Next after dining in such wise,
As with an appetite to rise;
I lounge at home—such are the days
Of men, whom no ambition sways.
With these few comforts I console
Myself, more happy on the whole,
Than if my sire and grandsire both,
Had fairly took the Questor's oath.
99
SATIRE VII.
[How Persius, ev'n that mongrel thing]
He describes a squabble between Rupilius, sirnamed King, with one Persius, a Grecian of mean account.
Aveng'd himself against one King,
Who by Octavius was proscrib'd,
He had such spite and gall imbib'd,
I make no doubt but long ago,
All Barbers and their patients know.
This Persius was compell'd to be
On business at Clazomenae,
Because his bulk of wealth was there,
With King too a perplex'd affair.
This man was harsh, and of such hate,
That even King's was not so great,
Full of all confidence and vain,
And still in such abusive strain,
That he cou'd distance and out do,
The Barri and Sisennæ too.
But now return we to this King,
When they cou'd to no issue bring
Their contest, (for when war breaks out,
Its longer, as the men are stout;
101
And spirited Achilles run,
That their intolerable rage,
Cou'd nought but death itself assuage.
And this too was the very cause,
Since each deserv'd so great applause;
And if there shou'd begin a fight
'Twixt heroes of unequal might,
The worst by presents must recede,
As Glaucus did by Diomede)
When Brutus was the prætor chose
Of Asia, these intrepid foes
Like Bacchius with Bithus match'd,
Hasted to have th'affair dispatch'd,
With vehemence they both proceed,
And were a curious sight indeed:
Persius the first the case expounds,
Till laughter from all sides rebounds;
He praises Brutus and his band,
“The sun of Asia for command,”
And all that follow'd him to fight,
He calls his satellites of light,
Except this King, who all things mars,
Curs'd as the Dog amongst the stars.
Made of precipitance and mud,
He rush'd on like a wintry flood;
The King then on his running on,
Wou'd have attack'd him pro and con,
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Of clowns, who're sent the vines to dress,
For all the passengers gave out,
When he cried cuckold, thief, or lout—
But this same Grecian dipt in gall,
From Italy began to bawl—
“By all th'immortal Gods, O Brute,
“To thee I make my fervent suit,
“Thou that are wont all kings to kill,
“Use this King also as you will,
“For take my word, it is the task
“Of him that bears both ax and mask.”
This is one of the meanest productions in all Horace, and seems to have been written for the sake of a sorry pun upon the word Rex.
105
SATIRE VIII.
[Cut from the bastard-fig of yore]
He introduces the god Priapus, keeper of the gardens, complaining of the witches Canidia and Sagana, and describing what was done by them in secret.
A lumpish useless form I bore,
When the pos'd joiner was in doubt,
What in the end I shou'd turn out,
A God, or chopping block—at last
My lot was for Priapus cast.
Hence as a pow'r divine, I stand
To scare the thieves and birds—my hand
The former checks, but for the crows
A reed is fix'd above my nose,
Which still forbids them to parade
In these fine gardens, newly made.
Here sometime since the fellow-slave,
Brought out dead corpses to the grave,
From all their narrow cells thrown out,
And in vile coffins borne about.
This was the common burying place,
For wretches of Plebeian race,
Where fool Pantolabus they bore,
And Nomentanus rakes no more.
A pillar here inscrib'd, assign'd
A thousand feet in front—behind
Three hundred tow'rds the fields adjoin'd;
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It could not to the heir revert.
But now so good th'Esquilian air,
That one may like a lodging there,
And on a sunny terras stalk,
Where grieved spectators us'd to walk,
And view with lamentable groans,
The place deform'd with human bones.
Tho' both the thieves and ev'ry brute,
That us'd to haunt this place to boot,
Gave me not half the plague and care,
As these old hags that here repair,
And with their magic drugs and charms
Turn people's brains—by no alarms
These can I quell or drive away,
When the vague beauteous moon-beams play.
But that both bones they will collect,
And simples of a curs'd effect,
I saw Canidia in black gown
Succinct, and walking up and down
With naked feet, dishevell'd hair,
And howling to the midnight air;
With Sagana that elder scold—
They both were ghastly to behold.
Then they began with nails to scratch
The earth, and with their teeth dispatch
A black ewe-lamb alive and crude,
His blood into a ditch they spew'd,
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To give them answers out of hell.
A woollen effigy they bring,
And one of wax—the former thing
Was largest, and in act express,
As if 'twas punishing the less.
The waxen was in suppliant mood,
As bound to perish on the rood.
This hag did Hecate invoke,
That fell Tisiphone bespoke;
While serpents and infernal curs,
And moon behind the sepulchres
You might have seen to blush for shame,
Lest she, forsooth, should bear the blame.
Now if one lie defile my tongue,
May all the crows my form bedung!
Why should I mention every fact,
And tell each circumstance exact?
How Sagana to a spectre speaks,
The one by grumbling, one by shrieks,
And how in earth, with wolf's grim beard,
They teeth of spotted snake interr'd.
How from the image made of wax,
A rousing fire awakes and cracks.
How at these furies I was shock'd,
But not intirely foil'd and mock'd;
For as a bladder sounds, when broke,
I from my fig-posteriors spoke.
They scar'd, into the city hied,
With laughter then you might have died.
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For teeth, came tumbling on the stones:
And what the jest shou'd not abate,
Old Sagana soon lost her tete,
With magic herbs upon the ground,
And bracelet from her arm unbound.
113
SATIRE IX.
[A saunt'ring on the sacred way]
He describes the impertinence and persevering garrulity of a certain person whom he happened on by chance.
(As is my custom every day)
Upon some trivial thing intent,
With all my thoughts engag'd, I went.
When, lo! a chap, whom by his name
I barely knew, abruptly came,
And grasping hard my hand in his,
“How does the dearest man, that is?”
The times consider'd, I can do,
With my best wishes, Sir, for you.
But finding that he still kept on,
I ask'd him, what he was upon?
He answer'd, “Sir, you must know me,
“A scholar of the first degree.”—
I told him on that very score,
He must of me be priz'd the more.
Now in the last distress my pace
I mend, and sometime for a space
Stand still—and whisper to my lad,
Sweating from head to foot, like-mad:
O blest Bollanus! in my heart
I said, ev'n blockhead as thou art!
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“A noble town! a glorious street!”
Whatever came into his head;
But when he found I nothing said,
Says he, “I know you are in pain
“To get away, 'tis very plain.
“But you are ne'er the near, good friend!
“I'll still keep up, and still attend—
“And pray, Sir, which way is your route?”
—You need not go so much about.
It is upon a man to wait,
You do not know at any rate,
Across the Tiber, and as far
Almost, as Cæsar's gardens are.
“Brisk, and quite disengaged, I'll cleave
“Unto your honour, by your leave.”
Here brought to such a sorry pass,
I hang my ears, like some poor ass,
Whose grudging spirit cannot bear
A heavier burthen, than is fair.
Again his tongue began to run,
“Me, if you knew, you wou'd not shun,
“Nor wou'd ev'n Viscus close ally,
“Or Varius be more dear than I.
“For who's a better bard than me,
“Or writes so fast, or flows so free?”
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“Then for your treble and your base,
“I raise with voice so tun'd to please,
“The envy of Hermogenes.”—
Here was a respite, to thrust in
A word or two—Have you no kin,
Are you no mother's darling hope,
Who would not wish you to elope!—
“—No not a soul—I've buried all.”—
Thrice blessed in their funeral.
Alas! now I alone survive,
Dispatch and havock me alive.
For now the hour is come, foretold
By Sabine sorceress of old,
When for my fate her urn she shook—
This child (I read it in his look)
Nor poison, nor the hostile spear,
Nor pleurisy, nor cough need fear—
Nor shall the gout affect his brain;
Born by a babbler to be slain;
Such he'll avoid, if he is sage,
Shou'd he but live, and come of age.—
To Vesta's now (one fourth of day
Quite gone and spent) we made our way.
And he, by a most lucky chance,
Was call'd upon recognizance,
Which if he shou'd neglect to do,
An instant non-suit must ensue.
“Step in (says he) my dearest bard,
“If you retain the least regard.”—
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And hurry to the place, you know—
Nor am I vers'd in civil law.
Says he, “Now whether to withdraw
“From you, or to desert my cause,
“Is that on which I needs must pause.”—
Me, Sir, I beg you would forbear—
“I cannot do it, Sir, I swear.”—
Then he began to take the lead;
I (for no parley can succeed
Against the victor) creep behind.
“Mæcenas, how is he inclin'd?”
Cries he, continuing his prate—
Few men with him are intimate;
A man of excellent good sense,
No one man has greater eminence,
By fairly pushing of success.”—
—“Here is your man, whose clean address
“Cou'd much assist you, hand and heart,
“And finely play an underpart;
“Of all the rest you'd soon dispose.”—
—We are not on such terms as those;
Nor is there any house in Rome
More free from that, which you presume.
My circumstance is not concern'd,
Tho' one's more rich, and one's more learn'd,
All have their special ranks and cares.—
—“You tell me marvellous affairs,
“Scarce credible!”—'Tis even so.—
—“Now you inflame me more to know,
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A thing from him is to acquire;
Such is your merit, 'twill be done,
And he is easy to be won;
Wherefore he's apt to keep on guard,
And make his first approaches hard.—
—“I'll not be wanting to my plan,
“But bribe his servants, man by man.
“And if I am repuls'd to-day—
“I'll not desist—I'll mark his way,
“I will for all occasions wait,
“I'll see his honour home in state.
“The lot of human life is such,
“Nought's done but by endeavouring much.”—
Thus while he rattled without end,
Aristius Fuscus, my dear friend,
One who full well this fellow knew,
Came up and met us—how do you do,
And whether bound, each ask'd and told—
I twitch his sleeve, and strive to hold
His arms reluctant—from this scrape,
Nodding and winking to escape.
He laugh'd, and scrupled by the dint
Of ill-tim'd jest to take the hint—
I, with my vitals all inflam'd,
Cry “sure you lately something nam'd,
“That you in secret had for me.”—
O! I remember it (says he)
But I a fitter time shall choose,
'Tis a great sabbath with the Jews,
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“I'm not so scrupulous, dear friend.”
But pardon him of weaker turn,
One of the many—we'll adjourn—
Another day—and I'll advise—
(O that so black a sun shou'd rise!)
Away the traitor runs for life,
And leaves my throat beneath the knife—
By happiest chance the plaintiff came,
And “where away, thou son of shame;”
He roar'd aloud—then me addrest—
“Sir, will you witness this arrest.”—
I yield—he's hurried to the hall—
Both parties make a grievous bawl—
The concourse on all sides is great—
Thus Phœbus stav'd his poet's fate.
There is a very pleasant equivocation in the proper name Viscus, which likewise signifies bird-lime.
125
SATIRE X.
[Well, I did say Lucilius penn'd]
This Satire is an answer to those who had taken offence at the Fourth, in which he finds fault with the verses of Lucillius;—and he renders a reason for such reprehension, and shews it to be just.
Well, I did say Lucilius penn'd
Lame verses—who's so much his friend,
And fawning dupe, to praise amiss,
As not at least to grant me this?
But that he smartly lash'd the age,
I praise him in the self-same page.
Yet, tho' I this one truth attest,
I cannot grant you all the rest.
For so I might admire each mime,
Laberius wrote, as true sublime.
Wherefore 'tis not enough to win
The hearer's ear, and make him grin,
(Tho' this is merit in degree)
But that the period may run free,
Nor with vain words the ear be tir'd—
There is a brevity requir'd.
The stile too sometimes shou'd of right
Be grave, and often arch and light,
As acting now the poet's part,
And now the pleader to the heart;
And sometime lower'd, to acquit
The part of a familiar wit,
Who will his strength and skill neglect,
The more to heighten the effect.
By satire in a pleasant vein,
A weighty point we oft'ner gain,
Than talking in severer strain.
The writers of the Comic cast,
Who wrote their plays some ages past,
Their works on this foundation rear,
And all are imitable here.
But these Hermogenes the beau,
And ape Demetrius did not know,
Which last, not learning better things,
Still Calvus and Catullus sings.—
Lame verses—who's so much his friend,
And fawning dupe, to praise amiss,
As not at least to grant me this?
But that he smartly lash'd the age,
I praise him in the self-same page.
Yet, tho' I this one truth attest,
I cannot grant you all the rest.
For so I might admire each mime,
Laberius wrote, as true sublime.
Wherefore 'tis not enough to win
The hearer's ear, and make him grin,
(Tho' this is merit in degree)
But that the period may run free,
Nor with vain words the ear be tir'd—
There is a brevity requir'd.
The stile too sometimes shou'd of right
Be grave, and often arch and light,
As acting now the poet's part,
And now the pleader to the heart;
And sometime lower'd, to acquit
The part of a familiar wit,
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The more to heighten the effect.
By satire in a pleasant vein,
A weighty point we oft'ner gain,
Than talking in severer strain.
The writers of the Comic cast,
Who wrote their plays some ages past,
Their works on this foundation rear,
And all are imitable here.
But these Hermogenes the beau,
And ape Demetrius did not know,
Which last, not learning better things,
Still Calvus and Catullus sings.—
But this Lucillius cou'd atchieve
A mighty feat, and interweave
His Latin with a deal of Greek.—
O ye late-learn'd, and still to seek—
To think ought wonderful or hard,
Performed ev'n by the Rhodian bard!—
But yet, they cry, the stile combin'd
Of diff'rent tongues is more refin'd;
As Chian wine is always best,
Well mixt with the Falernian zest.
A mighty feat, and interweave
His Latin with a deal of Greek.—
O ye late-learn'd, and still to seek—
To think ought wonderful or hard,
Performed ev'n by the Rhodian bard!—
But yet, they cry, the stile combin'd
Of diff'rent tongues is more refin'd;
As Chian wine is always best,
Well mixt with the Falernian zest.
Now let me fairly ask your muse,
If for your subject you shou'd choose
Petillus his intangled case,
Wou'd you forget your native place
And Roman sire, to inter-lard
Words taken from a foreign bard?
And ape the Canusinian folk,
Where only broken Latin's spoke,
Tho' Pedius and Corvinus sweat
With zeal, and a great pattern set.
If for your subject you shou'd choose
Petillus his intangled case,
Wou'd you forget your native place
And Roman sire, to inter-lard
Words taken from a foreign bard?
129
Where only broken Latin's spoke,
Tho' Pedius and Corvinus sweat
With zeal, and a great pattern set.
To me one time about to speak,
And write my verses all in Greek,
Tho' born upon th'Italian coast
At midnight Romulus his ghost
Appear'd, the hour that dreams are true,
My scheme forbidding to pursue:
“The plan wou'd be as wise and good,
“To carry timber to the wood,
“As to augment th'enormous throng
“Of Grecian books in prose and song.”
While puff't Alpinus blows his blast,
And butchers Memnon in bombast,
Or Rhine with muddy head displays,
I sport with these satiric lays;
Which nor in Phœbus' temple dare
Be shewn, if Tarpa shou'd be there,
Nor in the play-house give delight,
Nor have a run from night to night.
And write my verses all in Greek,
Tho' born upon th'Italian coast
At midnight Romulus his ghost
Appear'd, the hour that dreams are true,
My scheme forbidding to pursue:
“The plan wou'd be as wise and good,
“To carry timber to the wood,
“As to augment th'enormous throng
“Of Grecian books in prose and song.”
While puff't Alpinus blows his blast,
And butchers Memnon in bombast,
Or Rhine with muddy head displays,
I sport with these satiric lays;
Which nor in Phœbus' temple dare
Be shewn, if Tarpa shou'd be there,
Nor in the play-house give delight,
Nor have a run from night to night.
You, O Fundanius! far surpass
All moderns of the comic class,
While you th'arch dialogue repeat,
How Davus and the doxy cheat
That old huncks Chremes—Pollio sings
In lively verse the deeds of kings;
Varius is masterly and strong,
Unrival'd in th'heroic song ;
While all the Muses of the field,
The delicate and pleasant yield
To Virgil—writings of this strain,
Which Varro cou'd attempt in vain,
And certain others, I pretend
In some degree to recommend,
But of inferior rank in Rome
To him, th' original, from whom
I shall not dare to pluck the bays,
That crown his head with so much praise.—
All moderns of the comic class,
While you th'arch dialogue repeat,
How Davus and the doxy cheat
That old huncks Chremes—Pollio sings
In lively verse the deeds of kings;
Varius is masterly and strong,
Unrival'd in th'heroic song ;
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The delicate and pleasant yield
To Virgil—writings of this strain,
Which Varro cou'd attempt in vain,
And certain others, I pretend
In some degree to recommend,
But of inferior rank in Rome
To him, th' original, from whom
I shall not dare to pluck the bays,
That crown his head with so much praise.—
But I objected that his song,
Flow'd oft so muddily along,
That the more part of what he said
Shou'd rather be eras'd, than read.
Well! well! do you so great a clerk,
No fault in Homer's self remark?
Does not Lucillius revise
In wagg'ry Accius' comedies?
And laugh at Ennius as too free,
With his poetic gravity,
When ev'n his noble self he names
No better, than the men he blames?—
Flow'd oft so muddily along,
That the more part of what he said
Shou'd rather be eras'd, than read.
Well! well! do you so great a clerk,
No fault in Homer's self remark?
Does not Lucillius revise
In wagg'ry Accius' comedies?
And laugh at Ennius as too free,
With his poetic gravity,
When ev'n his noble self he names
No better, than the men he blames?—
What in like manner can impede
But I, who this Lucillius read,
May make enquiry, as I go,
Which was the real cause, to know,
His subject's nature, or his own,
That he no better skill has shown,
Nor lets his numbers smoother glide,
Than if a man shou'd take a pride
The measure with six feet to close,
And lines by hundreds to compose,
Before he sits him down to eat,
And then as many after meat.
Such was the Tuscan poet's trade,
With genius fierce as a cascade,
Whose works gave fuel for the fire,
Upon his own funereal pyre.
But I, who this Lucillius read,
May make enquiry, as I go,
Which was the real cause, to know,
His subject's nature, or his own,
That he no better skill has shown,
133
Than if a man shou'd take a pride
The measure with six feet to close,
And lines by hundreds to compose,
Before he sits him down to eat,
And then as many after meat.
Such was the Tuscan poet's trade,
With genius fierce as a cascade,
Whose works gave fuel for the fire,
Upon his own funereal pyre.
But grant Lucillius form'd to write,
At once the hum'rous and polite,
More learn'd than Ennius every piece,
The sire of verse unknown to Greece,
And more correct in ev'ry page,
Than poets of the earlier age—
Yet he (continued to our day)
Much from himself had par'd away,
And prun'd off every useless shoot,
On which was neither song nor fruit;
And in the tuning of his wit,
Had often scratch'd his head, and bit
His nails, in an extatic fit.
At once the hum'rous and polite,
More learn'd than Ennius every piece,
The sire of verse unknown to Greece,
And more correct in ev'ry page,
Than poets of the earlier age—
Yet he (continued to our day)
Much from himself had par'd away,
And prun'd off every useless shoot,
On which was neither song nor fruit;
And in the tuning of his wit,
Had often scratch'd his head, and bit
His nails, in an extatic fit.
You that wou'd write a taking strain,
And worthy to be read again,
Oft turn your style in act to blot,
Nor care if crouds admire, or not,
Content with readers more select—
What wou'd you foolishly affect,
To have your verses taught in schools,
To shew poor boys the grammar-rules?
Not I—for whom it will suffice,
If knights allow my works the prize;
As in contempt of all the rest,
The hiss'd Arbuscula profess'd.
Me shall the gnat Pantilius fret,
Or shall I feel a thought's regret,
That by Demetrius I am spurn'd,
As soon as e'er my back is turn'd.
Or that Hermogenes's friend,
Weak Fannius loves to discommend—
May Plotius, Varius, and the Knight
Of Tuscany, praise what I write?
And Virgil, Valgius, and that best
Of men Octavius, with the rest;
And Fuscus I cou'd wish indeed,
And either Viscus wou'd accede!
And here with no ambitious view,
O Pollio! I cou'd mention you,
Messala, and his brother too;
On Servius, Bibulus insist,
And candid Furnius in my list:
With many more, whom learn'd and dear,
I wittingly insert not here.
These only, and the like of these,
I do desire my works shou'd please,
Such as they are, and shall be griev'd,
If my fond hope shou'd be deceiv'd.
Avaunt Demetrius, and the fool
Tigellius to the singing-school,
There snivel 'midst your female tribe—
Ho! quick, my boy, these lines transcribe.
And worthy to be read again,
Oft turn your style in act to blot,
Nor care if crouds admire, or not,
135
What wou'd you foolishly affect,
To have your verses taught in schools,
To shew poor boys the grammar-rules?
Not I—for whom it will suffice,
If knights allow my works the prize;
As in contempt of all the rest,
The hiss'd Arbuscula profess'd.
Me shall the gnat Pantilius fret,
Or shall I feel a thought's regret,
That by Demetrius I am spurn'd,
As soon as e'er my back is turn'd.
Or that Hermogenes's friend,
Weak Fannius loves to discommend—
May Plotius, Varius, and the Knight
Of Tuscany, praise what I write?
And Virgil, Valgius, and that best
Of men Octavius, with the rest;
And Fuscus I cou'd wish indeed,
And either Viscus wou'd accede!
And here with no ambitious view,
O Pollio! I cou'd mention you,
Messala, and his brother too;
On Servius, Bibulus insist,
And candid Furnius in my list:
With many more, whom learn'd and dear,
I wittingly insert not here.
These only, and the like of these,
I do desire my works shou'd please,
137
If my fond hope shou'd be deceiv'd.
Avaunt Demetrius, and the fool
Tigellius to the singing-school,
There snivel 'midst your female tribe—
Ho! quick, my boy, these lines transcribe.
| The works of Horace, translated into verse | |