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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| 2. | THE SECOND BOOK OF THE EPISTLES OF HORACE. |
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 | The works of Horace, translated into verse |  |
169
THE SECOND BOOK OF THE EPISTLES OF HORACE.
171
EPISTLE I. To Augustus.
He complains of the depraved taste amongst the Romans of his time, who estimated the merit of poems by their antiquity, and despised modern ones, for no other reason than that they were modern.
Since you alone sustain the state,
Midst things so various and so great,
And while your arms our coast defend,
To moral pulchritude attend,
Correcting us with wholesome laws,
Twere sin against the common cause
Was I to pen a tedious strain,
Thy time, Augustus, to detain.
Midst things so various and so great,
And while your arms our coast defend,
To moral pulchritude attend,
Correcting us with wholesome laws,
Twere sin against the common cause
173
Thy time, Augustus, to detain.
Rome's Founder, Bacchus, and the seed
Of Leda, men of might indeed,
And for their works in heav'n receiv'd,
Yet while on earth conjointly griev'd,
That human favour, human fame,
By no means answer'd to their claim,
As cultivators of mankind,
That special property assign'd,
And cities built, and lands dispos'd,
And finally dissentions clos'd.
The man that brought the Hydra down,
And beasts of horrible renown
Subdu'd by his predestin'd toil,
Found yet their was a foe to foil,
Ev'n Envy, whose infernal blast
Cou'd not be worsted but the last.
He galls, whose merits overbear
The puny wits, with lust'rous glare,
Hated while he retains his breath,
And lov'd for nothing but his death.
Of Leda, men of might indeed,
And for their works in heav'n receiv'd,
Yet while on earth conjointly griev'd,
That human favour, human fame,
By no means answer'd to their claim,
As cultivators of mankind,
That special property assign'd,
And cities built, and lands dispos'd,
And finally dissentions clos'd.
The man that brought the Hydra down,
And beasts of horrible renown
Subdu'd by his predestin'd toil,
Found yet their was a foe to foil,
Ev'n Envy, whose infernal blast
Cou'd not be worsted but the last.
He galls, whose merits overbear
The puny wits, with lust'rous glare,
Hated while he retains his breath,
And lov'd for nothing but his death.
To you, tho' with us, we bestow
The full-blown honours, as they grow,
And to your name those altars rear,
Which men upon their oath revere,
Confessing that a man like thee,
Nor has been, nor again shall be.
But here your people wise to own
The truth, in this one point alone,
(That is to place your matchless fame
Above each Greek and Roman name)
Cannot be made at any rate,
Thus other things to estimate,
And still their futile venom spawn,
On all that are not dead and gone:
Such favourers of dusty shelves,
They will assert the Nine themselves,
Upon mount Alban did ordain
Those tables that the laws contain;
The leagues our antient monarchs made,
With neighbours for their mutual aid,
The Pontiff's rolls, and each record
The Angurs College keeps in ward.
If, as the oldest Greeks are best,
You say the same thing of the rest
And prove our writers by that test;
Your tongue at once all truth disowns,
Nuts have no shells, nor olives stones.
The full-blown honours, as they grow,
And to your name those altars rear,
Which men upon their oath revere,
Confessing that a man like thee,
Nor has been, nor again shall be.
But here your people wise to own
The truth, in this one point alone,
175
Above each Greek and Roman name)
Cannot be made at any rate,
Thus other things to estimate,
And still their futile venom spawn,
On all that are not dead and gone:
Such favourers of dusty shelves,
They will assert the Nine themselves,
Upon mount Alban did ordain
Those tables that the laws contain;
The leagues our antient monarchs made,
With neighbours for their mutual aid,
The Pontiff's rolls, and each record
The Angurs College keeps in ward.
If, as the oldest Greeks are best,
You say the same thing of the rest
And prove our writers by that test;
Your tongue at once all truth disowns,
Nuts have no shells, nor olives stones.
We've reach'd the highest pitch in arts,
In painting, music, shew our parts
And wrestle cleaner on the stage
Than active Greeks, in any age.
In painting, music, shew our parts
And wrestle cleaner on the stage
Than active Greeks, in any age.
If keeping to a certain date,
Like wine one's poems meliorate:
I fain wou'd know the very year
That makes this sage decision clear.
Who died an hundred years ago,
Is he an ancient good or no?
Or must he rather be referr'd,
And scorn'd amongst the modern herd.
Here something positive will suit,
To put the matter past dispute—
Well he's an ancient true and good,
Who for an hundred years has stood:
But what for him do you deicde
Who month or year his junior dy'd?
Him will you condescend to place,
Amongst the vet'ran's in this case,
Or such as are condemn'd to scoff
Both now and many ages off?
Him then you say, we may be bold
In honesty, to rank as old
Who did the junior depart
One month, or year—with all my heart—
From your concessions if you please,
I pull the tail off by degrees,
And certainly shall dock the mare
If once I work it hair by hair,
Till like an heap that falls to ground,
I my opponent shall confound,
Who to the almanacs adheres,
And reckons eminence by years;
And nothing will applaud at all
But trophies from a funeral.
Like wine one's poems meliorate:
I fain wou'd know the very year
That makes this sage decision clear.
Who died an hundred years ago,
Is he an ancient good or no?
Or must he rather be referr'd,
And scorn'd amongst the modern herd.
177
To put the matter past dispute—
Well he's an ancient true and good,
Who for an hundred years has stood:
But what for him do you deicde
Who month or year his junior dy'd?
Him will you condescend to place,
Amongst the vet'ran's in this case,
Or such as are condemn'd to scoff
Both now and many ages off?
Him then you say, we may be bold
In honesty, to rank as old
Who did the junior depart
One month, or year—with all my heart—
From your concessions if you please,
I pull the tail off by degrees,
And certainly shall dock the mare
If once I work it hair by hair,
Till like an heap that falls to ground,
I my opponent shall confound,
Who to the almanacs adheres,
And reckons eminence by years;
And nothing will applaud at all
But trophies from a funeral.
Ennius th'ingenious and the strong,
A second Homer for his song,
(As critics estimate the bard)
Seems now but lightly to regard
His dreams, of what shou'd come to pass,
And figments of Pythagoras.
Nævius, altho' he be not read,
Is fresh in every person's head,
All ancient verse is held so dread.
When critic desputants contest,
Which of the poets is the best.
Pacuvius is for learning prais'd,
And Accius reckon'd great and rais'd;
Afranius all the town admit
His gown wou'd on Menander sit.
A second Homer for his song,
(As critics estimate the bard)
Seems now but lightly to regard
His dreams, of what shou'd come to pass,
And figments of Pythagoras.
179
Is fresh in every person's head,
All ancient verse is held so dread.
When critic desputants contest,
Which of the poets is the best.
Pacuvius is for learning prais'd,
And Accius reckon'd great and rais'd;
Afranius all the town admit
His gown wou'd on Menander sit.
Plautus still keeps each sketch in view,
Sicilian Epicharmus drew:
Cœcilius did in weight excel,
And Terence in conducting well.
Sicilian Epicharmus drew:
Cœcilius did in weight excel,
And Terence in conducting well.
These mighty Rome by heart has got,
With these cram'd theatres are hot.
These are the poets of the stage
From Livius to the present age.
With these cram'd theatres are hot.
These are the poets of the stage
From Livius to the present age.
Sometimes the populace are right,
Sometimes remote from reason quite.
If poets of the former days
At such a rate th'admirers praise,
So that they nothing will prefer
Or ev'n compare with them, they err;
If they but fairly wou'd confess,
Some things are in too stale a dress,
Most lines put down too harsh and rough,
And many errant idle stuff,
Then are they wisemen, and agree
With what is very truth—and me.
I do not for my part devote
To silence, all that Livius wrote,
Who when a boy, that flogging cull
Orbilius hammer'd in my skull,
But am astonish'd they appear,
To any beautiful and near
To finish'd—for 'mongst many lines
If but one bright expression shines,
And midst the lamentable whole,
One verse or two harmonious roll,
In every righteous man's despite
It carries off th'edition quite.
Sometimes remote from reason quite.
If poets of the former days
At such a rate th'admirers praise,
So that they nothing will prefer
Or ev'n compare with them, they err;
If they but fairly wou'd confess,
Some things are in too stale a dress,
Most lines put down too harsh and rough,
And many errant idle stuff,
181
With what is very truth—and me.
I do not for my part devote
To silence, all that Livius wrote,
Who when a boy, that flogging cull
Orbilius hammer'd in my skull,
But am astonish'd they appear,
To any beautiful and near
To finish'd—for 'mongst many lines
If but one bright expression shines,
And midst the lamentable whole,
One verse or two harmonious roll,
In every righteous man's despite
It carries off th'edition quite.
'Tis wrath—when works they discommend,
Not that they're stupid or ill penn'd,
But merely for their modern date:
And for the ancients arrogate,
Rewards and reputation too,
When pardon barely is their due.
Shou'd a man question in this age
If Atta tread the essenc'd stage
With grace or not, our sires wou'd roar
That modesty is now no more,
Those parts by me to be disdain'd,
Whence grave Esopus glory gain'd,
And which learn'd Roscius too sustain'd.
Because they think, there's nothing right
But which is pleasing in their sight,
Or that they hold themselves disgrace't
If once their juniors set the taste,
And that when young (they must allow)
They learnt, what they shou'd cancel now.
Who Numa's Salian hymn wou'd praise
And such strange stuff, which now a days
Cannot be understood, when read,
Does not so much applaud the dead,
As his invidious taunts he show'rs
On us and every thing of ours.
Not that they're stupid or ill penn'd,
But merely for their modern date:
And for the ancients arrogate,
Rewards and reputation too,
When pardon barely is their due.
Shou'd a man question in this age
If Atta tread the essenc'd stage
With grace or not, our sires wou'd roar
That modesty is now no more,
Those parts by me to be disdain'd,
Whence grave Esopus glory gain'd,
And which learn'd Roscius too sustain'd.
183
But which is pleasing in their sight,
Or that they hold themselves disgrace't
If once their juniors set the taste,
And that when young (they must allow)
They learnt, what they shou'd cancel now.
Who Numa's Salian hymn wou'd praise
And such strange stuff, which now a days
Cannot be understood, when read,
Does not so much applaud the dead,
As his invidious taunts he show'rs
On us and every thing of ours.
But if in Greece new things had been
Thus odious, how shou'd we have seen
One ancient, how had they remain'd
With which we all are entertain'd?
When first upon a gen'ral peace
They learn'd to play the fool in Greece,
And into luxury to slide
By fortune fav'ring wind and tide,
Now wrestlers, now the race alone,
Now works in iv'ry or in stone,
Now busts, now pictures were admir'd
Thro' which the very soul transpired.
Thus odious, how shou'd we have seen
One ancient, how had they remain'd
With which we all are entertain'd?
When first upon a gen'ral peace
They learn'd to play the fool in Greece,
And into luxury to slide
By fortune fav'ring wind and tide,
Now wrestlers, now the race alone,
Now works in iv'ry or in stone,
Now busts, now pictures were admir'd
Thro' which the very soul transpired.
Now were they fond of pipe, now plays
Full of those wild infantine ways,
Like little misses when they're nurst
Soon slighting what so pleas'd at first.
Nought sweeten'd and nought made them sour
But had mutations every hour.
Such were the things that peace cou'd do,
And all the prosp'rous gales that blew.
Full of those wild infantine ways,
Like little misses when they're nurst
Soon slighting what so pleas'd at first.
Nought sweeten'd and nought made them sour
But had mutations every hour.
185
And all the prosp'rous gales that blew.
In Rome it was in much repute,
And held a pleasant task to boot,
Betimes each morning to be found
And to a client laws expound;
Cash with great caution to put out;
To be attentively devout
To hear the old—the young direct
How wealth may grow and lust be check'd.
And held a pleasant task to boot,
Betimes each morning to be found
And to a client laws expound;
Cash with great caution to put out;
To be attentively devout
To hear the old—the young direct
How wealth may grow and lust be check'd.
Light fashion now has chang'd our mind,
All are to verse alone inclin'd,
Each boy and rigid elder's crown'd
With bays, and as the cup goes round
At supper will their lines rehearse—
Ev'n I, who swear I make no verse,
Am found a Parthian to outlie,
And e'er the Sun's a second high,
Call for my ink with quick demand,
My pen, my paper and my stand.
A man that knows not how to steer
A ship, will such an office fear;
No one with drugs the sick will aid
Who was not 'prentice to the trade—
They're doctors who the art profess,
Smiths use their hammers with address,
But wits or blockheads, wrong or right,
We one and all must verse indite
All are to verse alone inclin'd,
Each boy and rigid elder's crown'd
With bays, and as the cup goes round
At supper will their lines rehearse—
Ev'n I, who swear I make no verse,
Am found a Parthian to outlie,
And e'er the Sun's a second high,
Call for my ink with quick demand,
My pen, my paper and my stand.
A man that knows not how to steer
A ship, will such an office fear;
No one with drugs the sick will aid
Who was not 'prentice to the trade—
They're doctors who the art profess,
Smiths use their hammers with address,
But wits or blockheads, wrong or right,
We one and all must verse indite
But yet this error in degree
This tincture of insanity
How much the virtues it can serve
Please in this manner to observe.
The poet seldom on the whole
Has got an avaricious soul,
Verse is his study and delight—
At detriments of fire and flight
Of servants he securely smiles,
By craft no neighbour he beguiles,
No pupil of his trust, as fed
On homely husks and second bread:
Tho' slow and useless in the war,
Rome's weal is that he's ever for,
And if you'll grant me this withal
That great things are upheld by small,
The infant's mouth the poets frame,
And tune their language lisping—lame.
Weans from bad words their ears betimes
With friendly care their heart sublimes;
Corrects their rudeness, all the seeds
Of envy or of passion weeds;
Records good actions with the pen
And in the lives of glorious men
Instructs hereafter, to the poor
And weakly gives a gentle cure.
How shou'd good boys and girls regard
Their pray'rs, had heav'n denied a bard!
The chorus for heav'n's aid applies
And feels the present deities,
Sweet in mysterious pray'r the rain
They from the highest heav'n obtain,
Avert disease, stave dang'rous fears
Bring peace with rich and fruitful years:
The gods above, the pow'rs below
By verse their consolation know.
This tincture of insanity
187
Please in this manner to observe.
The poet seldom on the whole
Has got an avaricious soul,
Verse is his study and delight—
At detriments of fire and flight
Of servants he securely smiles,
By craft no neighbour he beguiles,
No pupil of his trust, as fed
On homely husks and second bread:
Tho' slow and useless in the war,
Rome's weal is that he's ever for,
And if you'll grant me this withal
That great things are upheld by small,
The infant's mouth the poets frame,
And tune their language lisping—lame.
Weans from bad words their ears betimes
With friendly care their heart sublimes;
Corrects their rudeness, all the seeds
Of envy or of passion weeds;
Records good actions with the pen
And in the lives of glorious men
Instructs hereafter, to the poor
And weakly gives a gentle cure.
How shou'd good boys and girls regard
Their pray'rs, had heav'n denied a bard!
The chorus for heav'n's aid applies
And feels the present deities,
Sweet in mysterious pray'r the rain
They from the highest heav'n obtain,
189
Bring peace with rich and fruitful years:
The gods above, the pow'rs below
By verse their consolation know.
Our ancient rustics hale and rough,
And with a little bless'd enough,
Soothing upon their garner'd grain
Their limbs and minds, which cou'd sustain,
In hopes of respite, grievous pain;
With children and with faithful wife,
And fellow-craft in rural life,
The goddess Tellus with a swine,
Sylvanus with the milk and kine,
All worshipp'd, and with wine and flow'rs
The genius of the mental pow'rs
Who's mindful still that life is fleet
And thence invites to make it sweet.
And with a little bless'd enough,
Soothing upon their garner'd grain
Their limbs and minds, which cou'd sustain,
In hopes of respite, grievous pain;
With children and with faithful wife,
And fellow-craft in rural life,
The goddess Tellus with a swine,
Sylvanus with the milk and kine,
All worshipp'd, and with wine and flow'rs
The genius of the mental pow'rs
Who's mindful still that life is fleet
And thence invites to make it sweet.
From sports like these driv'n to excess
Came Fescennine licentiousness,
Which pour'd out clownish verse profuse
In dialogue and gross abuse,
Which grateful liberty each year
Was rather cheerful than severe.
At length the jest too far inhanc'd
To downright open rage advanc'd,
And while impunity remain'd
Upon ingenuous houses gain'd,
The suff'rers from their bloody frangs
Were tortur'd with most cruel pangs,
And many, tho' unhurt, were grieved,
That men such injuries receiv'd,
The senate made a law in fine
Which did a penalty injoin,
If any man they shou'd asperse;
And point out in satiric verse,
They were oblig'd to change their plan
For fear of beating, and began
Their works poetic to dispense
For pleasure and benevolence.
Came Fescennine licentiousness,
Which pour'd out clownish verse profuse
In dialogue and gross abuse,
Which grateful liberty each year
Was rather cheerful than severe.
At length the jest too far inhanc'd
To downright open rage advanc'd,
And while impunity remain'd
Upon ingenuous houses gain'd,
The suff'rers from their bloody frangs
Were tortur'd with most cruel pangs,
191
That men such injuries receiv'd,
The senate made a law in fine
Which did a penalty injoin,
If any man they shou'd asperse;
And point out in satiric verse,
They were oblig'd to change their plan
For fear of beating, and began
Their works poetic to dispense
For pleasure and benevolence.
Bow'd to our arms the captive Greece,
Took the fierce victor on the peace
And introduced politer arts
In Italy's more rustic parts;
Thus lines of barbarism and scoff,
Prais'd in Saturnian times, flow'd off,
And elegance, which must be neat
Did squalled filthiness defeat,
Yet this (as former times) retains
Some traces of the rough remains.
'Twas late e'er they their talents tried
And to the Grecian style applied;
And both the Punic wars were o'er
E'er they set by th'Athenian lore,
And made enquiry by degrees,
What Æsculus, and Sophocles,
And Thespis, had of useful vein,
And strove too, if they might attain
Each author's beauties to translate,
Conscious of natures high and great.
For spirit we've enough in Rome,
And wear with grace the Tragic plume,
But cannot bear to be correct,
And hate a blot as a defect.
Took the fierce victor on the peace
And introduced politer arts
In Italy's more rustic parts;
Thus lines of barbarism and scoff,
Prais'd in Saturnian times, flow'd off,
And elegance, which must be neat
Did squalled filthiness defeat,
Yet this (as former times) retains
Some traces of the rough remains.
'Twas late e'er they their talents tried
And to the Grecian style applied;
And both the Punic wars were o'er
E'er they set by th'Athenian lore,
And made enquiry by degrees,
What Æsculus, and Sophocles,
And Thespis, had of useful vein,
And strove too, if they might attain
Each author's beauties to translate,
Conscious of natures high and great.
193
And wear with grace the Tragic plume,
But cannot bear to be correct,
And hate a blot as a defect.
The comic muse that draws her scene
From things of common life and mean,
Is thought to smell too much of sweat:
But the less favour it can get,
The more of study it shou'd take.
From things of common life and mean,
Is thought to smell too much of sweat:
But the less favour it can get,
The more of study it shou'd take.
Observe how Plautus paints his rake,
How stupidly th'old huncks is drawn,
And crafty bawds that huff and fawn;
How much Dorsennus' muse delights
In eating and in parasites,
Who treads the stage an errant slouch
For while there's money in his pouch,
With him is no concern at all
Whether the Drama stand or fall.
How stupidly th'old huncks is drawn,
And crafty bawds that huff and fawn;
How much Dorsennus' muse delights
In eating and in parasites,
Who treads the stage an errant slouch
For while there's money in his pouch,
With him is no concern at all
Whether the Drama stand or fall.
He, whom vain-glory's chariot draws
Upon the stage for mere applause,
Faints when the audience languid grows,
But when they're lively puffs and blows.
So light, so trivial are the things
By which a spirit flags or springs,
That's covetous of praise—Farewel
All thought in writing to excel,
If glory giv'n or ta'en away
Make me look fat or lean a day—
Upon the stage for mere applause,
Faints when the audience languid grows,
But when they're lively puffs and blows.
So light, so trivial are the things
By which a spirit flags or springs,
That's covetous of praise—Farewel
All thought in writing to excel,
If glory giv'n or ta'en away
Make me look fat or lean a day—
This too makes many a bard withold
And well may terrify the bold,
That those who're of no worth possess'd
Or name, out-number all the rest,
Unlearn'd and dolts and prone to box
When a knight's taste their fancy shocks:
These midst the most inchanting airs
Demand the wrestlers and the bears,
For in all such the mob delights:
Nay ev'n the pleasure of our knights,
Driv'n from judicious ears, decoys
Th'uncertain eyes to gewgaw toys.
—Three or four hours the curtain's drawn
And horse and foot at once come on,
March o'er the stage with hapless kings,
Their hands behind them tied in slings,
Then chariots, litters, ships and wains
And slaves with iv'ry drag'd in chains,
And Corinth, to conclude the whole,
Is carried on a cloth and pole.
Democritus, was he on earth,
Wou'd fairly burst his sides with mirth,
To see the people staring hard
Upon some strange camelo-pard,
Or on an elephant all white,
The mob wou'd more attract his sight,
Than all the fun upon the stage,
Mean time he'd find the author's rage,
On a deaf ass, was spent in vain,
For who can rant in such a strain,
As all that din to over-bear,
With which they drown both house and play'r.
You'd think Garganian forests roar,
Or billows on the Tuscan shore:
With so much clamour from their hearts,
The foreign gems, and wealth, and arts,
In which the actor's trick'd, are view'd,
For when he comes, in claps renew'd,
The right-hand and the left agree—
Has he said any thing?—Not he—
Whence therefore all this wond'rous glee?
From robe of true Tarentian die,
Whose tints may with the violet vie;
And lest you think that I degrade
With sparing praise, what I'm affraid
To undertake myself, when done
By others for a general run,
Know then, that far above my hopes
That poet treads the highest ropes,
With fictious grief who wounds my breast,
Inflames, serenes, disturbs my rest
With magic terrors, that he makes,
And now to Thebes, now Athens takes.
And well may terrify the bold,
195
Or name, out-number all the rest,
Unlearn'd and dolts and prone to box
When a knight's taste their fancy shocks:
These midst the most inchanting airs
Demand the wrestlers and the bears,
For in all such the mob delights:
Nay ev'n the pleasure of our knights,
Driv'n from judicious ears, decoys
Th'uncertain eyes to gewgaw toys.
—Three or four hours the curtain's drawn
And horse and foot at once come on,
March o'er the stage with hapless kings,
Their hands behind them tied in slings,
Then chariots, litters, ships and wains
And slaves with iv'ry drag'd in chains,
And Corinth, to conclude the whole,
Is carried on a cloth and pole.
Democritus, was he on earth,
Wou'd fairly burst his sides with mirth,
To see the people staring hard
Upon some strange camelo-pard,
Or on an elephant all white,
The mob wou'd more attract his sight,
Than all the fun upon the stage,
Mean time he'd find the author's rage,
On a deaf ass, was spent in vain,
For who can rant in such a strain,
As all that din to over-bear,
With which they drown both house and play'r.
197
Or billows on the Tuscan shore:
With so much clamour from their hearts,
The foreign gems, and wealth, and arts,
In which the actor's trick'd, are view'd,
For when he comes, in claps renew'd,
The right-hand and the left agree—
Has he said any thing?—Not he—
Whence therefore all this wond'rous glee?
From robe of true Tarentian die,
Whose tints may with the violet vie;
And lest you think that I degrade
With sparing praise, what I'm affraid
To undertake myself, when done
By others for a general run,
Know then, that far above my hopes
That poet treads the highest ropes,
With fictious grief who wounds my breast,
Inflames, serenes, disturbs my rest
With magic terrors, that he makes,
And now to Thebes, now Athens takes.
But Cæsar, take a little care
Of writers, that the stage forbear,
Who for the closet bards commence,
And dread an haughty audience,
So shall that library be fill'd
To Phœbus, which you rose to build,
And bards have spurs for new essays,
To gain the Heliconian bays.
Of writers, that the stage forbear,
Who for the closet bards commence,
And dread an haughty audience,
So shall that library be fill'd
To Phœbus, which you rose to build,
And bards have spurs for new essays,
To gain the Heliconian bays.
199
We poets oft to mar the plot
Of our own comrades are, got wot,
Too apt to do ourselves much wrong,
When we present th' obtrusive song
To thoughtful patrons, when in league
With sleepy dulness, thro' fatigue:
When we are pain'd, if any friend
Has dar'd to call one line ill-penn'd;
When tho' unask'd, we read again
The place that did small praise obtain,
Griev'd that our works so very clear,
And finely spun did not appear;
When we indulge our hopes, in fine,
That when our verses we divine,
You'll cite us of your own accord,
Force us to write for a reward,
Nor dream of want, when you're Lord.
And yet 'tis worth the while to know,
Who shou'd be virtue's priest below,
Who gives to their immortal tome
Your worth in battle and at home,
Themes far too sacred for a bard,
That is not worthy prime regard.
Of our own comrades are, got wot,
Too apt to do ourselves much wrong,
When we present th' obtrusive song
To thoughtful patrons, when in league
With sleepy dulness, thro' fatigue:
When we are pain'd, if any friend
Has dar'd to call one line ill-penn'd;
When tho' unask'd, we read again
The place that did small praise obtain,
Griev'd that our works so very clear,
And finely spun did not appear;
When we indulge our hopes, in fine,
That when our verses we divine,
You'll cite us of your own accord,
Force us to write for a reward,
Nor dream of want, when you're Lord.
And yet 'tis worth the while to know,
Who shou'd be virtue's priest below,
Who gives to their immortal tome
Your worth in battle and at home,
Themes far too sacred for a bard,
That is not worthy prime regard.
Lov'd by the Macedonian youth
Was Chærilus, whose verse uncouth,
And vilely made, cou'd yet purloin
An hoard of royal Philip's coin.
But as the ink not manag'd right
Leaves blots, so scriblers that indite
Bald verses, must their theme debase,
And the most shining acts disgrace.
This same king, who cou'd verses buy
So stupid, at a price so high,
Cou'd make an edict of restraint,
That not a hand his face shou'd paint
Except Apelles, nor in brass
Shou'd bustos for his likeness pass,
Sav'd form'd in fam'd Lysippus' mould—
Now shou'd a person make so bold,
This monarch's judgment to refer
To books and bards, one might aver,
Or even undertake to swear,
His birth was in Bœotian air.
But those, your fav'rite sons of song,
Virgil and Varius, do not wrong
Your judgment, or the gifts that crown
Theirs and the donor's just renown.
Nor are the lineaments more just,
When cast into a brazen bust,
Than in th'immortal poet's lays,
Appear the spirit and the ways
Of heroes—I am none of those
Who wou'd prefer your creeping prose,
To the describing mighty acts,
Earth's, rivers, and extensive tracts,
And tow'rs upon the mountains built,
And kingdoms of barbarian guilt,
With all the wars constrain'd to cease,
By proclamation of your peace,
And Janus' temple lock'd and barr'd,
To stand for Concord upon guard,
And Rome, that now the Parthians dread,
Because Augustus is our head.
All this supposing I cou'd do,
As well as is my wish, is true.
But nor your grandeur will admit
Of grov'lers, nor can I think fit,
In modesty a theme to try,
Which for my size is far too high.
An author's zeal that's too intense,
Will urge his folly to offence;
But most so, when he acts his part
In numbers, and poetic art:
For things ridiculously wrong,
Will to the mem'ry stick more strong,
Than passages of better thought,
For praise and admiration wrote.
Were I a patron I shou'd feel
Uneasiness for ill-tim'd zeal,
Nor like by any means to spy
My ugly likeness in a die,
Nor choose to be a heroe call'd,
In verses miserably bald,
Left I shou'd blush, when forc'd to take
The gifts fat dulness comes to make,
And in an open trunk repine,
To see my author's name and mine;
Or carried off those streets behold,
Where all-spice and perfumes are sold,
And fritter'd into many a scrap,
Be doom'd all sorts of trash to wrap.
Was Chærilus, whose verse uncouth,
201
An hoard of royal Philip's coin.
But as the ink not manag'd right
Leaves blots, so scriblers that indite
Bald verses, must their theme debase,
And the most shining acts disgrace.
This same king, who cou'd verses buy
So stupid, at a price so high,
Cou'd make an edict of restraint,
That not a hand his face shou'd paint
Except Apelles, nor in brass
Shou'd bustos for his likeness pass,
Sav'd form'd in fam'd Lysippus' mould—
Now shou'd a person make so bold,
This monarch's judgment to refer
To books and bards, one might aver,
Or even undertake to swear,
His birth was in Bœotian air.
But those, your fav'rite sons of song,
Virgil and Varius, do not wrong
Your judgment, or the gifts that crown
Theirs and the donor's just renown.
Nor are the lineaments more just,
When cast into a brazen bust,
Than in th'immortal poet's lays,
Appear the spirit and the ways
Of heroes—I am none of those
Who wou'd prefer your creeping prose,
To the describing mighty acts,
Earth's, rivers, and extensive tracts,
203
And kingdoms of barbarian guilt,
With all the wars constrain'd to cease,
By proclamation of your peace,
And Janus' temple lock'd and barr'd,
To stand for Concord upon guard,
And Rome, that now the Parthians dread,
Because Augustus is our head.
All this supposing I cou'd do,
As well as is my wish, is true.
But nor your grandeur will admit
Of grov'lers, nor can I think fit,
In modesty a theme to try,
Which for my size is far too high.
An author's zeal that's too intense,
Will urge his folly to offence;
But most so, when he acts his part
In numbers, and poetic art:
For things ridiculously wrong,
Will to the mem'ry stick more strong,
Than passages of better thought,
For praise and admiration wrote.
Were I a patron I shou'd feel
Uneasiness for ill-tim'd zeal,
Nor like by any means to spy
My ugly likeness in a die,
Nor choose to be a heroe call'd,
In verses miserably bald,
Left I shou'd blush, when forc'd to take
The gifts fat dulness comes to make,
205
To see my author's name and mine;
Or carried off those streets behold,
Where all-spice and perfumes are sold,
And fritter'd into many a scrap,
Be doom'd all sorts of trash to wrap.
Here Horace dissents from Cicero, who tells us that the comedies of this person were not worth a second reading.
There are more passages in Horace (particular, a caution to Lollius, and his own reason of forbearance to Trebatius) that shew, what extreme address it required to approach Augustus with verses, who tho' he loved them, and could make them, yet did not choose they should interfere with certain times and circumstances.
207
EPISTLE II. To Julius Florus.
He makes his apology to Julius Florus, who complained that he neither sent him any letter, nor those verses, which he had promised.
Florus, great Nero's faithful friend,
Shou'd any man by chance commend
A little stripling, to be bought
From Gabii, or from Tibur brought,
And thus begin with you to treat,
“This boy, Sir, 's of a temper sweet,
“And sightly ev'n from head to foot,
“And he his Lord's commands will suit;
“Pay me but fifty pounds—he goes—
“A little Greek the youngster knows.
“Like clay for models, you with ease
“Can make him learn whate'er you please;
“His voice, tho' rude, is well to pass,
“And entertaining o'er a glass.
“Huge promises will credit lose,
“When any man is too profuse
“In praising what he wants to sell:
“Necessity does not compel
“That he must needs be sold as yet,
“Tho' poor I am in no man's debt;
“There's not a dealer you cou'd find,
“So much unto your honour's mind,
“And there's not any man but you
“That I wou'd thus oblige—'tis true,
“This boy, (as often is the way)
“Did once upon an errant stay,
“Then fled, thro' fear to feel the pangs
“Of whip, that on the stair-case hangs,
“Wherefore if this, his only vice,
“Offend you not, pay down the price.”
The man may for his money call,
And be indemnified withal,
According to my skill in trade;
You wittingly a purchase made
Of him, who for a knave was sold,
But the conditions were foretold,
And yet you will th'affair dispute,
And forward an unrighteous suit.
Shou'd any man by chance commend
A little stripling, to be bought
From Gabii, or from Tibur brought,
And thus begin with you to treat,
“This boy, Sir, 's of a temper sweet,
“And sightly ev'n from head to foot,
“And he his Lord's commands will suit;
“Pay me but fifty pounds—he goes—
“A little Greek the youngster knows.
“Like clay for models, you with ease
“Can make him learn whate'er you please;
“His voice, tho' rude, is well to pass,
“And entertaining o'er a glass.
“Huge promises will credit lose,
“When any man is too profuse
“In praising what he wants to sell:
“Necessity does not compel
“That he must needs be sold as yet,
“Tho' poor I am in no man's debt;
209
“So much unto your honour's mind,
“And there's not any man but you
“That I wou'd thus oblige—'tis true,
“This boy, (as often is the way)
“Did once upon an errant stay,
“Then fled, thro' fear to feel the pangs
“Of whip, that on the stair-case hangs,
“Wherefore if this, his only vice,
“Offend you not, pay down the price.”
The man may for his money call,
And be indemnified withal,
According to my skill in trade;
You wittingly a purchase made
Of him, who for a knave was sold,
But the conditions were foretold,
And yet you will th'affair dispute,
And forward an unrighteous suit.
I told you, when you went away,
That I was idle, out of play,
Nor cou'd such offices abide—
I told you that you might not chide,
When from my hands no letter came.
But what's all this, if you disclaim
Conditions for myself I made,
And furthermore your friend upbraid,
That he's no better than a liar,
Not sending verse, as you require.
That I was idle, out of play,
Nor cou'd such offices abide—
I told you that you might not chide,
When from my hands no letter came.
But what's all this, if you disclaim
Conditions for myself I made,
And furthermore your friend upbraid,
That he's no better than a liar,
Not sending verse, as you require.
After much hardship in the fight,
As tir'd he snor'd away the night,
A soldier of Lucullus' host,
His money to a farthing lost;
From this a rav'nous wolf he grows,
Wroth with himself, as with his foes,
Fierce rushing, with his hungry fangs,
From off their post he soundly bangs
A royal guard (as they report)
And took their stores and strongest fort.
By such great gallantry renown'd,
He is with highest honours crown'd:
The Chief besides to him decrees,
Full fifty thousand sesterces.
It happen'd just upon this feat,
His captain was intent to beat
The foe, and batter their redoubt—
Words that wou'd make a coward stout,
He to the self-same man addrest,
“Go thou the bravest and the best,
“Go where thy valour calls, and speed
“About to share rewards indeed!
“Why do you stand debating—march!”—
On which my chap extremely arch,
Tho' but a clown, made answer back,
“Let him go foremost to th'attack,
“His lance at your command to couch,
“Who's fall'n asleep, and lost his pouch.”
It was my lot in tender age
At Rome, to con th'Homeric page,
How by the wrath of Peleus' son,
The Grecian councils were undone;
Ingenuous Athens added more,
Of what is call'd the useful lore,
The right from its reverse to know,
And in the search of truth to go,
Where solitary wisdom roves,
And thinks in academic groves.
But the perverseness of the time,
Displac'd me from that pleasant clime,
And, e're I knew whom I was for,
Involv'd in tides of civil war,
And arms, in which there was no hope
That they shou'd with Augustus cope,
From whence when we were all dispers'd,
And from Philippi sent amerc'd,
With my wings clipt, and heart unmann'd,
And destitute of house and land,
Compell'd by poverty intense,
I boldly did a bard commence.
But now remote from being poor,
What med'cines cou'd my phrenzy cure,
If I should write or verse, or prose,
In preference to my repose?
As tir'd he snor'd away the night,
211
His money to a farthing lost;
From this a rav'nous wolf he grows,
Wroth with himself, as with his foes,
Fierce rushing, with his hungry fangs,
From off their post he soundly bangs
A royal guard (as they report)
And took their stores and strongest fort.
By such great gallantry renown'd,
He is with highest honours crown'd:
The Chief besides to him decrees,
Full fifty thousand sesterces.
It happen'd just upon this feat,
His captain was intent to beat
The foe, and batter their redoubt—
Words that wou'd make a coward stout,
He to the self-same man addrest,
“Go thou the bravest and the best,
“Go where thy valour calls, and speed
“About to share rewards indeed!
“Why do you stand debating—march!”—
On which my chap extremely arch,
Tho' but a clown, made answer back,
“Let him go foremost to th'attack,
“His lance at your command to couch,
“Who's fall'n asleep, and lost his pouch.”
It was my lot in tender age
At Rome, to con th'Homeric page,
How by the wrath of Peleus' son,
The Grecian councils were undone;
213
Of what is call'd the useful lore,
The right from its reverse to know,
And in the search of truth to go,
Where solitary wisdom roves,
And thinks in academic groves.
But the perverseness of the time,
Displac'd me from that pleasant clime,
And, e're I knew whom I was for,
Involv'd in tides of civil war,
And arms, in which there was no hope
That they shou'd with Augustus cope,
From whence when we were all dispers'd,
And from Philippi sent amerc'd,
With my wings clipt, and heart unmann'd,
And destitute of house and land,
Compell'd by poverty intense,
I boldly did a bard commence.
But now remote from being poor,
What med'cines cou'd my phrenzy cure,
If I should write or verse, or prose,
In preference to my repose?
The fleeting years from spring to fall,
Have fairly rob'd me of my all,
My jests, my gallantry, my play,
And revellings are ta'en away.
Now they're exerting of their force,
The very Muses to divorce,
Then how shou'd I direct my course?
In short, all matters do not strike
On every personage alike;
The ode is by your choice preferr'd,
He likes iambics, and a third
The satires written on the plan
Of Bion, that invet'rate man;
Here are three guests, cannot approve
Of the same dish, or same remove;
What shall I give, or what refuse,
You spurn the things that others chuse,
And what's acceptable to you
Will give offence to t'other two.
Besides all this, pray how do you think
A man can harmonize his ink,
At Rome, amidst his toils and cares
And all his intricate affairs?
One summons me to be his bail,
And one to hear him without fail,
While he, forsooth, his work recites!
To mount Quirinus one invites,
The other two I must attend,
On Aventine the farther end.
Both must be visited, you see
The distance suits one charmingly:
But never mind the streets are clear,
Fit for the thoughtful and severe;
A builder hurries with his mules,
And porter bearing chips and tools;
The timber-tug, now whirls a stone,
And now a log to break a bone;
Now a dispute is likewise made
'Twixt waggon, and the sad parade
Of fun'ral pomp—a mad dog now,
Now rushes a most filthy sow:
Go, poet, make your verses neat,
And let their melody be sweet.
Thro' all their choir, the gen'ral run
Of bards love groves, and cities shun,
Due votaries of Bacchus made,
Rejoicing in repose and shade.
Must I then sing the tuneful lay
Amidst such din both night and day,
And up hill strive the steps to trace
Of poetry's retarded race.
A genius who has made retreat,
In Athens leisure-loving seat,
And there his constitution wears
Sev'n years immers'd in books and cares.
Sometimes comes out into the town,
A mere dumb statue in a gown,
Till all the people shake their sides—
But how in all these boistrous tides
And tempests of the city-throng
Can I associate lyre and song!
Have fairly rob'd me of my all,
My jests, my gallantry, my play,
And revellings are ta'en away.
Now they're exerting of their force,
The very Muses to divorce,
Then how shou'd I direct my course?
215
On every personage alike;
The ode is by your choice preferr'd,
He likes iambics, and a third
The satires written on the plan
Of Bion, that invet'rate man;
Here are three guests, cannot approve
Of the same dish, or same remove;
What shall I give, or what refuse,
You spurn the things that others chuse,
And what's acceptable to you
Will give offence to t'other two.
Besides all this, pray how do you think
A man can harmonize his ink,
At Rome, amidst his toils and cares
And all his intricate affairs?
One summons me to be his bail,
And one to hear him without fail,
While he, forsooth, his work recites!
To mount Quirinus one invites,
The other two I must attend,
On Aventine the farther end.
Both must be visited, you see
The distance suits one charmingly:
But never mind the streets are clear,
Fit for the thoughtful and severe;
A builder hurries with his mules,
And porter bearing chips and tools;
The timber-tug, now whirls a stone,
And now a log to break a bone;
217
'Twixt waggon, and the sad parade
Of fun'ral pomp—a mad dog now,
Now rushes a most filthy sow:
Go, poet, make your verses neat,
And let their melody be sweet.
Thro' all their choir, the gen'ral run
Of bards love groves, and cities shun,
Due votaries of Bacchus made,
Rejoicing in repose and shade.
Must I then sing the tuneful lay
Amidst such din both night and day,
And up hill strive the steps to trace
Of poetry's retarded race.
A genius who has made retreat,
In Athens leisure-loving seat,
And there his constitution wears
Sev'n years immers'd in books and cares.
Sometimes comes out into the town,
A mere dumb statue in a gown,
Till all the people shake their sides—
But how in all these boistrous tides
And tempests of the city-throng
Can I associate lyre and song!
At Rome together liv'd of late,
A dab in tropes and advocate,
Those men were brothers, and so near
Allied, that they wou'd only hear
Their mutual praise, in mutual speech,
Gracchus and Mucius, each to each.
Why shou'd this wrath of complaisance
Be less in them that sing and dance?
I write but odes, another sings
His elegies, amazing things
Trick't up by all the muses train—
Observe you first, with what disdain,
And what importance for ourselves,
We view the temple's vacant shelves.
Next if your leisure is inclin'd,
Yourself may follow us behind,
And hear us quote and judge the cause
We crown each other with applause.
A dab in tropes and advocate,
Those men were brothers, and so near
Allied, that they wou'd only hear
Their mutual praise, in mutual speech,
Gracchus and Mucius, each to each.
219
Be less in them that sing and dance?
I write but odes, another sings
His elegies, amazing things
Trick't up by all the muses train—
Observe you first, with what disdain,
And what importance for ourselves,
We view the temple's vacant shelves.
Next if your leisure is inclin'd,
Yourself may follow us behind,
And hear us quote and judge the cause
We crown each other with applause.
We work in counterfeited fight,
Like samnite blades till candle-light.
I am Alceus the divine,
By his decree—who's he by mine?
Callim'chus, if I underate,
Mimnermus more divinely great.
Like samnite blades till candle-light.
I am Alceus the divine,
By his decree—who's he by mine?
Callim'chus, if I underate,
Mimnermus more divinely great.
Much do I bear to keep in grace
With bards, that irritable race,
Whilst I myself to get the bays,
Submissive court the people's praise,
But having now my studies clos'd,
Quite sound, tho' lately indispos'd,
I can, secure of former fears,
Against reciters stop my ears.
With bards, that irritable race,
Whilst I myself to get the bays,
Submissive court the people's praise,
But having now my studies clos'd,
Quite sound, tho' lately indispos'd,
I can, secure of former fears,
Against reciters stop my ears.
The makers of your wretched strains,
By all are laugh'd at for their pains;
But in the writing they rejoice,
And for themselves will give their voice,
And if you let their praise alone,
The men are happy in their own.
By all are laugh'd at for their pains;
221
And for themselves will give their voice,
And if you let their praise alone,
The men are happy in their own.
But whoso chuses to compile
A work in genuine form and style,
Shou'd with his pen assume the mind
Of critic, honest and refin'd;
He boldly will all words displace,
Devoid of cleanness and of grace,
Such as are destitute of weight,
Such as are not sublime and great;
All these your blotting hand require,
Howe'er unwilling to retire,
And deem'd eternal for their fire.
Such phrazes, as from Rome have long
Been hid, he will receive in song,
And kindly bring to light again
Words, which ideas best explain,
The language of the great and just,
Tho' now disus'd thro' age and rust.
New words he likewise will invent,
All founded on experiment:
At once strong, musical, and clear,
Like some pure river he'll appear,
And pour out his redundant store
Abroad upon th'Italian shore;
What's too luxuriant he will pare,
To what is harsh he'll give an air;
What has no worth he'll take away,
He'll ape the mimic in the play,
With his invention on the rack,
While now he has the Satyr's knack,
And now like Cyclops must advance,
Stupendous in the clumsy dance.
A work in genuine form and style,
Shou'd with his pen assume the mind
Of critic, honest and refin'd;
He boldly will all words displace,
Devoid of cleanness and of grace,
Such as are destitute of weight,
Such as are not sublime and great;
All these your blotting hand require,
Howe'er unwilling to retire,
And deem'd eternal for their fire.
Such phrazes, as from Rome have long
Been hid, he will receive in song,
And kindly bring to light again
Words, which ideas best explain,
The language of the great and just,
Tho' now disus'd thro' age and rust.
New words he likewise will invent,
All founded on experiment:
At once strong, musical, and clear,
Like some pure river he'll appear,
And pour out his redundant store
Abroad upon th'Italian shore;
What's too luxuriant he will pare,
To what is harsh he'll give an air;
223
He'll ape the mimic in the play,
With his invention on the rack,
While now he has the Satyr's knack,
And now like Cyclops must advance,
Stupendous in the clumsy dance.
I'd rather be esteem'd a fool,
And object of all ridicule,
Self-entertain'd, or self-deceiv'd,
Than with my wisdom be aggriev'd.
And object of all ridicule,
Self-entertain'd, or self-deceiv'd,
Than with my wisdom be aggriev'd.
At Argos once it came to pass,
A personage of no mean class,
Set in a theatre at ease
Alone, and clapt himself to please,
Supposing that he hear'd the play'r,
Divinely tragedizing there:
And yet in other points of view,
This man cou'd all his duty do,
Good neighbour, courteous to his guest,
And with kind love his wife carest,
Indulgent to forgive a slave,
So as not actually to rave,
If he had dar'd to tap his wine—
Wou'd well, or precipice decline—
At length by care, and by expence
Of friends, recovering his sense.
“Good sirs, (says she) be all assur'd,
“You've kill'd me, rather than have cur'd,
“Who've rob'd my thoughts of sweet employ,
“And all my visionary joy.”—
A personage of no mean class,
Set in a theatre at ease
Alone, and clapt himself to please,
Supposing that he hear'd the play'r,
Divinely tragedizing there:
And yet in other points of view,
This man cou'd all his duty do,
Good neighbour, courteous to his guest,
And with kind love his wife carest,
Indulgent to forgive a slave,
So as not actually to rave,
If he had dar'd to tap his wine—
Wou'd well, or precipice decline—
At length by care, and by expence
Of friends, recovering his sense.
“Good sirs, (says she) be all assur'd,
“You've kill'd me, rather than have cur'd,
“Who've rob'd my thoughts of sweet employ,
“And all my visionary joy.”—
225
'Tis granted life is best apply'd
To wisdom, throwing toys aside;
Leave then to boys all childish play,
Theirs is the proper time of day,
Nor merely think on words to dwell,
Adapted to the Latian shell,
But method and array to scan,
Which tend to harmonize the man:
Wherefore I with myself converse,
And only things like these rehearse:
“If, tho' you drank untill you burst,
“No water yet wou'd quench your thirst,
“To doctors you wou'd tell th'affair,
“How is it that you do not dare,
“By frank confession to explain,
“The more you've got, the more you'd gain.
“If from a root or herb prescrib'd,
“Your wound no healing balm imbib'd,
“That herb, or root, you'd surely shun,
“By which you found no good was done;
“You by some conjurer was told,
“To whom the Gods give store of gold,
“From him depravity of heart,
“And folly shall of course depart;
“But since you are no wiser grown,
“With all this plenitude your own,
“Why have you therefore any more
“The same advisers, as before?
“But if wealth made you wise of soul,
“Your lusts and terrors to controul,
“You ought to blush if earth cou'd shew
“A man more covetous than you.
To wisdom, throwing toys aside;
Leave then to boys all childish play,
Theirs is the proper time of day,
Nor merely think on words to dwell,
Adapted to the Latian shell,
But method and array to scan,
Which tend to harmonize the man:
Wherefore I with myself converse,
And only things like these rehearse:
“If, tho' you drank untill you burst,
“No water yet wou'd quench your thirst,
“To doctors you wou'd tell th'affair,
“How is it that you do not dare,
“By frank confession to explain,
“The more you've got, the more you'd gain.
“If from a root or herb prescrib'd,
“Your wound no healing balm imbib'd,
“That herb, or root, you'd surely shun,
“By which you found no good was done;
“You by some conjurer was told,
“To whom the Gods give store of gold,
“From him depravity of heart,
“And folly shall of course depart;
“But since you are no wiser grown,
“With all this plenitude your own,
“Why have you therefore any more
“The same advisers, as before?
“But if wealth made you wise of soul,
“Your lusts and terrors to controul,
227
“A man more covetous than you.
If goods your property are found,
Bought by the penny, and the pound;
And some things (as the law assures)
Are wholly by possession yours;
The field that feeds you is your own,
And while he harrows it when sown,
The hind of Orbus still imputes
The right to him that has the fruits.
You give your cash receiving more,
Grapes, pullets, eggs, and wine galore,
Till by degrees the farm you've made,
For which p'rhaps the owner paid,
(To speak upon a mod'rate guess)
Three hundred thousand sesterces.
What boots it if your food you owe
To things bought now or long ago!
He, who that Aricinian spot,
Or field of Veiens lately got,
Sups on bought-herbs, tho' he thinks not.
Nay more, he boils his very food
Each frosty night with purchas'd wood;
And yet they're all his freehold lands
As far as where the poplar stands,
And is the limit too forefend,
Disputes at law 'twixt friend and friend,
As if ought was a man's estate,
Which in one moment of his date;
Now by petition, now by pay,
By violence another day,
Or by the common lot of all,
May to some other owner fall.
Then since for ever is not here,
Heir making heir still disappear,
As wave o'er wave the billows rise,
Then what are towns, or granaries,
Or cou'd you join, your flocks to feed,
Calabrian with Lucanian mead,
Since stern inexorable fate,
Unbrib'd by gold mows small and great?
Gems, marble, iv'ry, busts, and plate,
Fine pictures, and rich robes of state,
There are who never can acquire,
There are who no such things desire.
Bought by the penny, and the pound;
And some things (as the law assures)
Are wholly by possession yours;
The field that feeds you is your own,
And while he harrows it when sown,
The hind of Orbus still imputes
The right to him that has the fruits.
You give your cash receiving more,
Grapes, pullets, eggs, and wine galore,
Till by degrees the farm you've made,
For which p'rhaps the owner paid,
(To speak upon a mod'rate guess)
Three hundred thousand sesterces.
What boots it if your food you owe
To things bought now or long ago!
He, who that Aricinian spot,
Or field of Veiens lately got,
Sups on bought-herbs, tho' he thinks not.
Nay more, he boils his very food
Each frosty night with purchas'd wood;
And yet they're all his freehold lands
As far as where the poplar stands,
And is the limit too forefend,
Disputes at law 'twixt friend and friend,
As if ought was a man's estate,
Which in one moment of his date;
229
By violence another day,
Or by the common lot of all,
May to some other owner fall.
Then since for ever is not here,
Heir making heir still disappear,
As wave o'er wave the billows rise,
Then what are towns, or granaries,
Or cou'd you join, your flocks to feed,
Calabrian with Lucanian mead,
Since stern inexorable fate,
Unbrib'd by gold mows small and great?
Gems, marble, iv'ry, busts, and plate,
Fine pictures, and rich robes of state,
There are who never can acquire,
There are who no such things desire.
Why of two brethern one consumes
His time in idling, play, perfumes,
Nor heeds rich Herod's palm-estate;
The other, miserably great,
From morn to night with fire and steel,
Seeks with his forest fields to deal;
Our guiding genius here on earth
That rules the planet of our birth,
The best can certify, ev'n he,
Our nature's true divinity,
That o'er our heads exerts his might
And cheques our lives with black and white.
His time in idling, play, perfumes,
Nor heeds rich Herod's palm-estate;
The other, miserably great,
From morn to night with fire and steel,
Seeks with his forest fields to deal;
Our guiding genius here on earth
That rules the planet of our birth,
The best can certify, ev'n he,
Our nature's true divinity,
That o'er our heads exerts his might
And cheques our lives with black and white.
I'll freely take with mod'rate hands,
As much as exigence demands,
Nor will I waste a single care,
About th'opinion of my heir,
When at his coming he shall find
No augmentation left behind.
Yet I with measures thus advis'd,
Am still inclin'd to be appris'd,
How much the chearful and the free,
Is distant from the debauchee,
And what distinction exists
'Twixt misers and oeconomists.
For know there is a diff'rence quite,
Shou'd you waste ev'ry thing out-right,
Or only spread a plent'ous board,
Nor seek addition to your hoard:
But rather self and friend enjoy
By fits and starts, as when a boy,
Glad of the breaking-up retreat,
As shorter so by far more sweet.
Let dirty poverty, I pray,
Be far, yea very far away;
And be my vessel small or strong,
Let me go uniform along,
The wind, perhaps, is not so fair,
Sails swelling with the Northern air,
And yet I have not in my mouth
The tempest of the adverse South.
In force, in genius, figure, weight,
In virtue, station, and estate,
The last of them that foremost go,
But captain of the band below.
You are not covetous—go to—
But have you manhood to subdue,
And put to flight all vice beside?
Clear is your breast from worldly pride?
Of wrath and dread of dying clear?
Do you at dreams and conj'rer sneer?
Mock wonders, witches, nightly elves?
And ev'n Thessalian charms themselves?
When heav'n another birth-day sends
Art grateful? do you spare your friends?
At the approach of hoary age,
Art more good-natur'd and more sage?
Why pluck one thorn from out your mind
And leave so many more behind?
If you no more your life pursue
With skill, make room for them that do.
You've play'd, and eat, and drank, your share,
'Tis time your journey to prepare;
Lest youth, that has more decent claim
To every kind of wanton game,
Shou'd, midst your cups o'ercharg'd, with scoff
Hiss your last scene, and drive you off.
As much as exigence demands,
231
About th'opinion of my heir,
When at his coming he shall find
No augmentation left behind.
Yet I with measures thus advis'd,
Am still inclin'd to be appris'd,
How much the chearful and the free,
Is distant from the debauchee,
And what distinction exists
'Twixt misers and oeconomists.
For know there is a diff'rence quite,
Shou'd you waste ev'ry thing out-right,
Or only spread a plent'ous board,
Nor seek addition to your hoard:
But rather self and friend enjoy
By fits and starts, as when a boy,
Glad of the breaking-up retreat,
As shorter so by far more sweet.
Let dirty poverty, I pray,
Be far, yea very far away;
And be my vessel small or strong,
Let me go uniform along,
The wind, perhaps, is not so fair,
Sails swelling with the Northern air,
And yet I have not in my mouth
The tempest of the adverse South.
In force, in genius, figure, weight,
In virtue, station, and estate,
The last of them that foremost go,
But captain of the band below.
233
But have you manhood to subdue,
And put to flight all vice beside?
Clear is your breast from worldly pride?
Of wrath and dread of dying clear?
Do you at dreams and conj'rer sneer?
Mock wonders, witches, nightly elves?
And ev'n Thessalian charms themselves?
When heav'n another birth-day sends
Art grateful? do you spare your friends?
At the approach of hoary age,
Art more good-natur'd and more sage?
Why pluck one thorn from out your mind
And leave so many more behind?
If you no more your life pursue
With skill, make room for them that do.
You've play'd, and eat, and drank, your share,
'Tis time your journey to prepare;
Lest youth, that has more decent claim
To every kind of wanton game,
Shou'd, midst your cups o'ercharg'd, with scoff
Hiss your last scene, and drive you off.
| The works of Horace, translated into verse | |