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The works of John Dryden

Illustrated with notes, historical, critical, and explanatory, and a life of the author, by Sir Walter Scott

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TRANSLATIONS FROM PERSIUS.
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TRANSLATIONS FROM PERSIUS.


211

THE FIRST SATIRE OF PERSIUS.

PROLOGUE TO THE FIRST SATIRE.

ARGUMENT OF THE PROLOGUE TO THE FIRST SATIRE.

The design of the author was to conceal his name and quality. He lived in the dangerous times of the tyrant Nero, and aims particularly at him in most of his Satires. For which reason, though he was a Roman knight, and of a plentiful fortune, he would appear in this Prologue but a beggarly poet, who writes for bread. After this, he breaks into the business of the First Satire; which is chiefly to decry the poetry then in fashion, and the impudence of those who were endeavouring to pass their stuff upon the world.

I never did on cleft Parnassus dream,
Nor taste the sacred Heliconian stream;
Nor can remember when my brain, inspired,
Was by the Muses into madness fired.

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My share in pale Pyrene I resign,
And claim no part in all the mighty Nine.
Statues, with winding ivy crowned, belong
To nobler poets, for a nobler song;
Heedless of verse, and hopeless of the crown,
Scarce half a wit, and more than half a clown,
Before the shrine I lay my rugged numbers down.
Who taught the parrot human notes to try,
Or with a voice endued the chattering pye?
'Twas witty Want, fierce hunger to appease;
Want taught their masters, and their masters these.
Let gain, that gilded bait, be hung on high,
The hungry witlings have it in their eye;
Pyes, crows, and daws, poetic presents bring;
You say they squeak, but they will swear they sing.
 

Parnassus and Helicon were hills consecrated to the Muses, and the supposed place of their abode. Parnassus was forked on the top; and from Helicon ran a stream, the spring of which was called the Muses' Well.

Pyrene, a fountain in Corinth, consecrated also to the Muses.

The statues of the poets were crowned with ivy about their brows.

Before the shrine; that is, before the shrine of Apollo, in his temple at Rome, called the Palatine.


213

THE FIRST SATIRE.

IN DIALOGUE BETWIXT THE POET AND HIS FRIEND, OR MONITOR.

ARGUMENT.

I need not repeat, that the chief aim of the author is against bad poets in this Satire. But I must add, that he includes also bad orators, who began at that time (as Petronius in the beginning of his book tells us) to enervate manly eloquence by tropes and figures, ill placed, and worse applied. Amongst the poets, Persius covertly strikes at Nero, some of whose verses he recites with scorn and indignation. He also takes notice of the noblemen, and their abominable poetry, who, in the luxury of their fortunes, set up for wits and judges. The Satire is in dialogue betwixt the author and his friend, or monitor; who dissuades him from this dangerous attempt of exposing great men. But Persius, who is of a free spirit, and has not forgotten that Rome was once a commonwealth, breaks through all those difficulties, and boldly arraigns the false judgment of the age in which he lives. The reader may observe, that our poet was a Stoic philosopher; and that all his moral sentences, both here and in all the rest of his Satires, are drawn from the dogmas of that sect.

Persius.
How anxious are our cares, and yet how vain
The bent of our desires!

Friend.
Thy spleen contain;
For none will read thy satires.


214

Persius.
This to me?

Friend.
None, or, what's next to none, but two or three.
'Tis hard, I grant.

Persius.
'Tis nothing; I can bear,
That paltry scribblers have the public ear;
That this vast universal fool, the town,
Should cry up Labeo's stuff, and cry me down.
They damn themselves; nor will my muse descend
To clap with such, who fools and knaves commend:
Their smiles and censures are to me the same;
I care not what they praise, or what they blame.
In full assemblies let the crowd prevail;
I weigh no merit by the common scale.
The conscience is the test of every mind;
“Seek not thyself, without thyself, to find.”
But where's that Roman—Somewhat I would say,
But fear—let fear, for once, to truth give way.
Truth lends the Stoic courage; when I look
On human acts, and read in Nature's book,
From the first pastimes of our infant age,
To elder cares, and man's severer page;
When stern as tutors, and as uncles hard,
We lash the pupil, and defraud the ward,
Then, then I say—or would say, if I durst—
But, thus provoked, I must speak out, or burst.


215

Friend.
Once more forbear.

Persius.
I cannot rule my spleen;
My scorn rebels, and tickles me within.
First, to begin at home:—our authors write
In lonely rooms, secured from public sight;
Whether in prose, or verse, 'tis all the same,
The prose is fustian, and the numbers lame:
All noise, and empty pomp, a storm of words,
Labouring with sound, that little sense affords.
They comb, and then they order every hair;
A gown, or white, or scoured to whiteness, wear,
A birthday jewel bobbing at their ear;
Next, gargle well their throats; and, thus prepared,
They mount, a-God's name, to be seen and heard;
From their high scaffold, with a trumpet cheek,
And ogling all their audience ere they speak.
The nauseous nobles, even the chief of Rome,
With gaping mouths to these rehearsals come,
And pant with pleasure, when some lusty line
The marrow pierces, and invades the chine;
At open fulsome bawdry they rejoice,
And slimy jests applaud with broken voice.
Base prostitute! thus dost thou gain thy bread?
Thus dost thou feed their ears, and thus art fed?
At his own filthy stuff he grins and brays,
And gives the sign where he expects their praise.

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Why have I learned, say'st thou, if thus confined,
I choke the noble vigour of my mind?
Know, my wild fig-tree, which in rocks is bred,
Will split the quarry, and shoot out the head.
Fine fruits of learning! old ambitious fool,
Darest thou apply that adage of the school,
As if 'tis nothing worth that lies concealed,
And “science is not science till revealed”?
Oh, but 'tis brave to be admired, to see
The crowd, with pointing fingers, cry,—That's he;
That's he, whose wondrous poem is become
A lecture for the noble youth of Rome!
Who, by their fathers, is at feasts renowned,
And often quoted when the bowls go round.
Full gorged and flushed, they wantonly rehearse,
And add to wine the luxury of verse.
One, clad in purple, not to lose his time,
Eats and recites some lamentable rhyme,
Some senseless Phyllis, in a broken note,
Snuffling at nose, and croaking in his throat.
Then graciously the mellow audience nod;
Is not the immortal author made a god?
Are not his manes blest, such praise to have?
Lies not the turf more lightly on his grave?
And roses (while his loud applause they sing)
Stand ready from his sepulchre to spring?
All these, you cry, but light objections are,
Mere malice, and you drive the jest too far:
For does there breathe a man, who can reject
A general fame, and his own lines neglect?

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In cedar tablets worthy to appear,
That need not fish, or frankincense, to fear?
Thou, whom I make the adverse part to bear,
Be answered thus:—If I by chance succeed
In what I write (and that's a chance indeed),
Know, I am not so stupid, or so hard,
Not to feel praise, or fame's deserved reward;
But this I cannot grant, that thy applause
Is my work's ultimate, or only cause.
Prudence can ne'er propose so mean a prize;
For mark what vanity within it lies.
Like Labeo's Iliads, in whose verse is found
Nothing but trifling care, and empty sound;
Such little elegies as nobles write,
Who would be poets, in Apollo's spite.
Them and their woful works the Muse defies;
Products of citron beds, and golden canopies.
To give thee all thy due, thou hast the heart
To make a supper, with a fine dessert,
And to thy thread-bare friend a cast old suit impart.
Thus bribed, thou thus bespeak'st him—“Tell me, friend,
(For I love truth, nor can plain speech offend,)
What says the world of me and of my muse?”
The poor dare nothing tell but flattering news;
But shall I speak? Thy verse is wretched rhyme,
And all thy labours are but loss of time.
Thy strutting belly swells, thy paunch is high;
Thou writ'st not, but thou pissest poetry.

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All authors to their own defects are blind;
Hadst thou but, Janus-like, a face behind,
To see the people, what splay-mouths they make;
To mark their fingers, pointed at thy back;
Their tongues lolled out, a foot beyond the pitch,
When most athirst, of an Apulian bitch:
But noble scribblers are with flattery fed,
For none dare find their faults, who eat their bread.
To pass the poets of patrician blood,
What is't the common reader takes for good?
The verse in fashion is, when numbers flow,
Soft without sense, and without spirit slow;
So smooth and equal, that no sight can find
The rivet, where the polished piece was joined;
So even all, with such a steady view,
As if he shut one eye to level true.
Whether the vulgar vice his satire stings,
The people's riots, or the rage of kings,
The gentle poet is alike in all;
His reader hopes no rise, and fears no fall.

Friend.
Hourly we see some raw pin-feathered thing
Attempt to mount, and fights and heroes sing;
Who for false quantities was whipt at school
But t'other day, and breaking grammar-rule;
Whose trivial art was never tried above
The bare description of a native grove;
Who knows not how to praise the country store,

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The feasts, the baskets, nor the fatted boar,
Nor paint the flowery fields that paint themselves before;
Where Romulus was bred, and Quintius born,
Whose shining plough-share was in furrows worn,
Met by his trembling wife returning home,
And rustically joyed, as chief of Rome:
She wiped the sweat from the Dictator's brow,
And o'er his back his robe did rudely throw;
The lictors bore in state their lord's triumphant plough.
Some love to hear the fustian poet roar,
And some on antiquated authors pore;
Rummage for sense, and think those only good
Who labour most, and least are understood.
When thou shalt see the blear-eyed fathers teach
Their sons this harsh and mouldy sort of speech,
Or others new affected ways to try,
Of wanton smoothness, female poetry;
One would inquire from whence this motley style
Did first our Roman purity defile.
For our old dotards cannot keep their seat,
But leap and catch at all that's obsolete.
Others, by foolish ostentation led,
When called before the bar, to save their head,
Bring trifling tropes, instead of solid sense,
And mind their figures more than their defence;

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Are pleased to hear their thick-skulled judges cry,
Well moved, oh finely said, and decently!
Theft (says the accuser) to thy charge I lay,
O Pedius: what does gentle Pedius say?
Studious to please the genius of the times,
With periods, points, and tropes, he slurs his crimes:
“He robbed not, but he borrowed from the poor,
“And took but with intention to restore.”
He lards with flourishes his long harangue;
'Tis fine, say'st thou;—what, to be praised, and hang?
Effeminate Roman, shall such stuff prevail
To tickle thee, and make thee wag thy tail?
Say, should a shipwrecked sailor sing his woe,
Wouldst thou be moved to pity, or bestow
An alms? What's more preposterous than to see
A merry beggar, mirth in misery?

Persius.
He seems a trap for charity to lay,
And cons, by night, his lesson for the day.

Friend.
But to raw numbers, and unfinished verse,
Sweet sound is added now, to make it terse:
“'Tis tagged with rhyme, like Berecynthian Atys,
The mid-part chimes with art, which never flat is.

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The dolphin brave, that cuts the liquid wave,
Or he who in his line can chine the long-ribbed Apennine.”

Persius.
All this is doggrel stuff.

Friend.
What if I bring
A nobler verse? “Arms and the man I sing.”

Persius.
Why name you Virgil with such fops as these?
He's truly great, and must for ever please:
Not fierce, but awful, is his manly page;
Bold is his strength, but sober is his rage.

Friend.
What poems think you soft, and to be read
With languishing regards, and bending head?

Persius.
“Their crooked horns the Mimallonian crew
With blasts inspired; and Bassaris, who slew
The scornful calf, with sword advanced on high,
Made from his neck his haughty head to fly:
And Mænas, when with ivy bridles bound,
She led the spotted lynx, then Evion rung around;
Evion from woods and floods repairing echoes sound.”
Could such rude lines a Roman mouth become,
Were any manly greatness left in Rome?

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Mænas and Atys in the mouth were bred,
And never hatched within the labouring head;
No blood from bitten nails those poems drew,
But churned, like spittle, from the lips they flew.

Friend.
'Tis fustian all; 'tis execrably bad;
But if they will be fools, must you be mad?
Your satires, let me tell you, are too fierce;
The great will never bear so blunt a verse.
Their doors are barred against a bitter flout;
Snarl, if you please, but you shall snarl without.
Expect such pay as railing rhymes deserve;
You're in a very hopeful way to starve.

Persius.
Rather than so, uncensured let them be;
All, all is admirably well, for me.
My harmless rhyme shall 'scape the dire disgrace
Of common-shores, and every pissing-place.
Two painted serpents shall on high appear;
'Tis holy ground; you must not urine here.
This shall be writ, to fright the fry away,
Who draw their little baubles when they play.
Yet old Lucilius never feared the times,
But lashed the city, and dissected crimes.
Mutius and Lupus both by name he brought;
He mouthed them, and betwixt his grinders caught.

223

Unlike in method, with concealed design,
Did crafty Horace his low numbers join;
And, with a sly insinuating grace,
Laughed at his friend, and looked him in the face;
Would raise a blush where secret vice he found,
And tickle while he gently probed the wound,
With seeming innocence the crowd beguiled,
But made the desperate passes when he smiled.
Could he do this, and is my muse controlled
By servile awe? Born free, and not be bold?
At least, I'll dig a hole within the ground,
And to the trusty earth commit the sound;
The reeds shall tell you what the poet fears,
“King Midas has a snout, and ass's ears.”
This mean conceit, this darling mystery,
Which thou think'st nothing, friend, thou shalt not buy;
Nor will I change for all the flashy wit,
That flattering Labeo in his Iliads writ.
Thou, if there be a thou in this base town,
Who dares, with angry Eupolis, to frown;
He who, with bold Cratinus, is inspired
With zeal, and equal indignation fired;
Who at enormous villainy turns pale,
And steers against it with a full-blown sail,

224

Like Aristophanes, let him but smile
On this my honest work, though writ in homely style;
And if two lines or three in all the vein
Appear less drossy, read those lines again.
May they perform their author's just intent,
Glow in thy ears, and in thy breast ferment!
But from the reading of my book and me,
Be far, ye foes of virtuous poverty;
Who fortune's fault upon the poor can throw,
Point at the tattered coat, and ragged shoe;
Lay nature's failings to their charge, and jeer
The dim weak eye-sight, when the mind is clear;
When thou thyself, thus insolent in state,
Art but, perhaps, some country magistrate,
Whose power extends no further than to speak
Big on the bench, and scanty weights to break.
Him also for my censor I disdain,
Who thinks all science, as all virtue, vain;
Who counts geometry, and numbers, toys,
And with his foot the sacred dust destroys;
Whose pleasure is to see a strumpet tear
A cynic's beard, and lug him by the hair.
Such all the morning to the pleadings run;
But when the business of the day is done,
On dice, and drink, and drabs, they spend their afternoon.

 

Nothing is remaining of Atticus Labeo (so he is called by the learned Casaubon); nor is he mentioned by any other poet besides Persius. Casaubon, from an old commentator on Persius, says that he made a very foolish translation of Homer's Iliads.

He describes a poet, preparing himself to rehearse his works in public, which was commonly performed in August. A room was hired, or lent, by some friend; a scaffold was raised, and a pulpit placed for him who was to hold forth; who borrowed a new gown, or scoured his old one, and adorned his ears with jewels, etc.

Trees of that kind grow wild in many parts of Italy, and make their way through rocks, sometimes splitting the tombstones.

The Romans wrote on cedar and cypress tables, in regard of the duration of the wood. Ill verses might justly be afraid of frankincense; for the papers in which they were written, were fit for nothing but to wrap it up.

Writings of noblemen, whose bedsteads were of the wood of citron.

Janus was the first king of Italy, who refuged Saturn when he was expelled, by his son Jupiter, from Crete (or, as we now call it, Candia). From his name the first month of the year is called January. He was pictured with two faces, one before and one behind—as regarding the past time and the future. Some of the mythologists think he was Noah, for the reason given above.

He speaks of the country in the foregoing verses; the praises of which are the most easy theme for poets, but which a bad poet cannot naturally describe: then he makes a digression to Romulus, the first king of Rome, who had a rustical education; and enlarges upon Quintius Cincinnatus, a Roman senator, who was called from the plough to be dictator of Rome.

Persius here names antitheses, or seeming contradictions; which, in this place, are meant for rhetorical flourishes, as I think, with Casaubon.

Foolish verses of Nero, which the poet repeats; and which cannot be translated properly into English.

Other verses of Nero, that were mere bombast. I only note, that the repetition of these and the former verses of Nero, might justly give the poet a caution to conceal his name.

Poems on the Mænades, who were priestesses of Bacchus; and of Atys, who made himself an eunuch to attend on the sacrifices of Cybele, called Berecynthia by the poets. She was mother of the gods.

Two snakes, twined with each other, were painted on the walls, by the ancients, to show the place was holy.

Lucilius wrote long before Horace, who imitates his manner of satire, but far excels him in the design.

The story is vulgar, that Midas, king of Phrygia, was made judge betwixt Apollo and Pan, who was the best musician: he gave the prize to Pan; and Apollo, in revenge, gave him ass's ears. He wore his hair long to hide them; but his barber discovering them, and not daring to divulge the secret, dug a hole in the ground, and whispered into it: the place was marshy; and, when the reeds grew up, they repeated the words which were spoken by the barber. By Midas, the poet meant Nero.

Eupolis and Cratinus, as also Aristophanes, mentioned afterwards, were all Athenian poets; who wrote that sort of comedy which was called the Old Comedy, where the people were named who were satirised by those authors.

The people of Rome, in the time of Persius, were apt to scorn the Grecian philosophers, particularly the Cynics and Stoics, who were the poorest of them.

Arithmetic and geometry were taught on floors, which were strewed with dust, or sand; in which the numbers and diagrams were made and drawn, which they might strike out at pleasure.


225

THE SECOND SATIRE OF PERSIUS.

DEDICATED TO HIS FRIEND PLOTIUS MACRINUS, ON HIS BIRTHDAY.

THE ARGUMENT.

This Satire contains a most grave and philosophical argument, concerning prayers and wishes. Undoubtedly it gave occasion to Juvenal's Tenth Satire; and both of them had their original from one of Plato's dialogues, called the “Second Alcibiades.” Our author has induced it with great mystery of art, by taking his rise from the birthday of his friend; on which occasions prayers were made, and sacrifices offered by the native. Persius, commending, first, the purity of his friend's vows, descends to the impious and immoral requests of others. The satire is divided into three parts. The first is the exordium to Macrinus, which the poet confines within the compass of four verses: the second relates to the matter of the prayers and vows, and an enumeration of those things wherein men commonly sinned against right reason and offended in their requests: the third part consists in showing the repugnancies of those prayers and wishes to those of other men, and inconsistencies with themselves. He shows the original of these vows, and sharply inveighs against them; and, lastly, not only corrects the false opinion of


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mankind concerning them, but gives the true doctrine of all addresses made to heaven, and how they may be made acceptable to the powers above, in excellent precepts, and more worthy of a Christian than a Heathen.

Let this auspicious morning be exprest
With a white stone, distinguished from the rest,
White as thy fame, and as thy honour clear,
And let new joys attend on thy new added year.
Indulge thy genius, and o'erflow thy soul,
Till thy wit sparkle, like the cheerful bowl.
Pray; for thy prayers the test of heaven will bear,
Nor need'st thou take the gods aside to hear;
While others, even the mighty men of Rome,
Big swelled with mischief, to the temples come,
And in low murmurs, and with costly smoke,
Heaven's help to prosper their black vows, invoke:
So boldly to the gods mankind reveal
What from each other they, for shame, conceal.
“Give me good fame, ye powers, and make me just;”
Thus much the rogue to public ears will trust:
In private then,—“When wilt thou, mighty Jove,
My wealthy uncle from this world remove?”
Or, “O thou Thunderer's son, great Hercules,
That once thy bounteous deity would please
To guide my rake upon the chinking sound
Of some vast treasure, hidden under ground!
“O were my pupil fairly knocked o' the head,
I should possess the estate if he were dead!

227

He's so far gone with rickets, and with the evil,
That one small dose would send him to the devil.
“This is my neighbour Nerius his third spouse,
Of whom in happy time he rids his house;
But my eternal wife!—Grant, heaven, I may
Survive to see the fellow of his day!”
Thus, that thou may'st the better bring about
Thy wishes, thou art wickedly devout;
In Tiber ducking thrice, by break of day,
To wash the obscenities of night away.
But pr'ythee, tell me ('tis a small request),
With what ill thoughts of Jove art thou possest?
Wouldst thou prefer him to some man? Suppose
I dipped among the worst, and Staius chose?
Which of the two would thy wise head declare
The trustier tutor to an orphan heir?
Or, put it thus:—Unfold to Staius, straight,
What to Jove's ear thou didst impart of late:
He'll stare, and Oh, good Jupiter! will cry,
Canst thou indulge him in this villainy?
And think'st thou Jove himself with patience then
Can hear a prayer condemned by wicked men?
That, void of care, he lolls supine in state,
And leaves his business to be done by fate,
Because his thunder splits some burly tree,
And is not darted at thy house and thee;
Or that his vengeance falls not at the time,
Just at the perpetration of thy crime,
And makes thee a sad object of our eyes,
Fit for Ergenna's prayer and sacrifice?

228

What well-fed offering to appease the God,
What powerful present to procure a nod,
Hast thou in store? What bribe hast thou prepared,
To pull him, thus unpunished, by the beard?
Our superstitions with our life begin;
The obscene old grandam, or the next of kin,
The new-born infant from the cradle takes,
And, first, of spittle a lustration makes;
Then in the spawl her middle-finger dips,
Anoints the temples, forehead, and the lips,
Pretending force of magic to prevent,
By virtue of her nasty excrement;
Then dandles him with many a muttered prayer,
That heaven would make him some rich miser's heir,
Lucky to ladies, and in time a king;
Which to ensure, she adds a length of navel-string.
But no fond nurse is fit to make a prayer,
And Jove, if Jove be wise, will never hear;
Not though she prays in white, with lifted hands.
A body made of brass the crone demands
For her loved nursling, strung with nerves of wire,
Tough to the last, and with no toil to tire;
Unconscionable vows, which when we use,
We teach the gods, in reason, to refuse.
Suppose they were indulgent to thy wish,
Yet the fat entrails in the spacious dish

229

Would stop the grant; the very over-care
And nauseous pomp, would hinder half the prayer.
Thou hop'st with sacrifice of oxen slain
To compass wealth, and bribe the god of gain
To give thee flocks and herds, with large increase;
Fool! to expect them from a bullock's grease!
And think'st that when the fattened flames aspire,
Thou seest the accomplishment of thy desire!
“Now, now, my bearded harvest gilds the plain,
The scanty folds can scarce my sheep contain,
And showers of gold come pouring in amain!”
Thus dreams the wretch, and vainly thus dreams on,
Till his lank purse declares his money gone.
Should I present them with rare figured plate,
Or gold as rich in workmanship as weight;
O how thy rising heart would throb and beat,
And thy left side, with trembling pleasure, sweat!
Thou measur'st by thyself the powers divine;
Thy gods are burnished gold, and silver is their shrine.
The puny godlings of inferior race,
Whose humble statues are content with brass,
Should some of these, in visions purged from phlegm,
Foretell events, or in a morning dream;

230

Even those thou wouldst in veneration hold,
And, if not faces, give them beards of gold.
The priests in temples now no longer care
For Saturn's brass, or Numa's earthen ware;
Or vestal urns, in each religious rite;
This wicked gold has put them all to flight.
O souls, in whom no heavenly fire is found,
Fat minds, and ever grovelling on the ground!
We bring our manners to the blest abodes,
And think what pleases us must please the gods.
Of oil and cassia one the ingredients takes,
And, of the mixture, a rich ointment makes;
Another finds the way to dye in grain,
And makes Calabrian wool receive the Tyrian stain;
Or from the shells their orient treasure takes,
Or for their golden ore in rivers rakes,
Then melts the mass. All these are vanities,
Yet still some profit from their pains may rise:

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But tell me, priest, if I may be so bold,
What are the gods the better for this gold?
The wretch, that offers from his wealthy store
These presents, bribes the powers to give him more;
As maids to Venus offer baby-toys,
To bless the marriage-bed with girls and boys.
But let us for the gods a gift prepare,
Which the great man's great chargers cannot bear;
A soul, where laws, both human and divine,
In practice more than speculation shine;
A genuine virtue, of a vigorous kind,
Pure in the last recesses of the mind:
When with such offerings to the gods I come,
A cake, thus given, is worth a hecatomb.
 

The Romans were used to mark their fortunate days, or anything that luckily befell them, with a white stone, which they had from the island Creta, and their unfortunate with a coal.

Hercules was thought to have the key and power of bestowing all hidden treasure.

The ancients thought themselves tainted and polluted by night itself, as well as bad dreams in the night; and therefore purified themselves by washing their heads and hands every morning, which custom the Turks observe to this day.

When any one was thunderstruck, the soothsayer (who is here called Ergenna) immediately repaired to the place, to expiate the displeasure of the gods, by sacrificing two sheep.

The poet laughs at the superstitious ceremonies which the old women made use of in their lustration, or purification days, when they named their children, which was done on the eighth day to females, and on the ninth to males.

It was the opinion both of Grecians and Romans, that the gods, in visions and dreams, often revealed to their favourites a cure for their diseases, and sometimes those of others. Thus Alexander dreamed of an herb which cured Ptolemy. These gods were principally Apollo and Esculapius; but, in aftertimes, the same virtue and goodwill was attributed to Isis and Osiris. Which brings to my remembrance an odd passage in Sir Thomas Browne's Religio Medici, or in his Vulgar Errors; the sense whereof is, that we are beholden, for many of our discoveries in physic, to the courteous revelation of spirits. By the expression of “visions purged from phlegm,” our author means such dreams or visions as proceed not from natural causes, or humours of the body, but such as are sent from heaven; and are, therefore, certain remedies.

Brazen vessels, in which the public treasures of the Romans were kept: it may be the poet means only old vessels, which were called Κρονια, from the Greek name of Saturn. Note also, that the Roman treasury was in the temple of Saturn.

Under Numa, the second king of Rome, and for a long time after him, the holy vessels for sacrifice were of earthenware; according to the superstitious rites which were introduced by the same Numa: though afterwards, when Memmius had taken Corinth, and Paulus Emilius had conquered Macedonia, luxury began amongst the Romans, and then their utensils of devotion were of gold and silver, etc.

The wool of Calabria was of the finest sort in Italy, as Juvenal also tells us. The Tyrian stain is the purple colour dyed at Tyrus; and I suppose, but dare not positively affirm, that the richest of that dye was nearest our crimson, and not scarlet, or that other colour more approaching to the blue. I have not room to justify my conjecture.

Those baby-toys were little babies, or poppets, as we call them; in Latin, pupæ: which the girls, when they came to the age of puberty, or child-bearing, offered to Venus; as the boys, at fifteen, offered their bullæ, or bosses.

A cake of barley, or coarse wheat-meal, with the bran in it: the meaning is, that God is pleased with the pure and spotless heart of the offerer, and not with the riches of the offering. Laberius, in the fragments of his Mimes, has a verse like this, “Puras Deus non plenas aspicit manus.”—What I had forgotten before, in its due place, I must here tell the reader, that the first half of this satire was translated by one of my sons, now in Italy; but I thought so well of it, that I let it pass without any alteration.


232

THE THIRD SATIRE OF PERSIUS.

THE ARGUMENT.

Our author has made two Satires concerning study, the first and the third: the first related to men; this to young students, whom he desired to be educated in the Stoic philosophy. He himself sustains the person of the master, or preceptor, in this admirable Satire, where he upbraids the youth of sloth, and negligence in learning. Yet he begins with one scholar reproaching his fellow-students with late rising to their books. After which, he takes upon him the other part of the teacher; and, addressing himself particularly to young noblemen, tells them, that, by reason of their high birth, and the great possessions of their fathers, they are careless of adorning their minds with precepts of moral philosophy: and withal inculcates to them the miseries which will attend them in the whole course of their life, if they do not apply themselves betimes to the knowledge of virtue, and the end of their creation, which he pathetically insinuates to them. The title of this satire, in some ancient manuscripts, was, “The Reproach of Idleness;” though in others of the scholiasts it is inscribed, “Against the Luxury and Vices of the Rich.” In both of which, the intention of the poet is pursued, but principally in the former.

(I remember I translated this satire when I was a king's scholar at Westminster School, for a Thursday-night's exercise; and believe that it, and many other of my exercises of this nature in English verse, are still in the hands of my learned master, the Rev. Dr. Busby.)

Is this thy daily course? The glaring sun
Breaks in at every chink; the cattle run
To shades, and noon-tide rays of summer shun;

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Yet plunged in sloth we lie, and snore supine,
As filled with fumes of undigested wine.
This grave advice some sober student bears,
And loudly rings it in his fellow's ears.
The yawning youth, scarce half awake, essays
His lazy limbs and dozy head to raise;
Then rubs his gummy eyes, and scrubs his pate,
And cries, “I thought it had not been so late!
My clothes, make haste!”—why then, if none be near,
He mutters, first, and then begins to swear;
And brays aloud, with a more clamorous note,
Than an Arcadian ass can stretch his throat.
With much ado, his book before him laid,
And parchment with the smoother side displayed,
He takes the papers; lays them down again,
And with unwilling fingers tries the pen.
Some peevish quarrel straight he strives to pick,
His quill writes double, or his ink's too thick;
Infuse more water,—now 'tis grown so thin,
It sinks, nor can the characters be seen.
O wretch, and still more wretched every day!
Are mortals born to sleep their lives away?
Go back to what thy infancy began,
Thou, who wert never meant to be a man;
Eat pap and spoon-meat, for thy gewgaws cry;
Be sullen, and refuse the lullaby.
No more accuse thy pen; but charge the crime
On native sloth, and negligence of time.

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Think'st thou thy master, or thy friends, to cheat?
Fool, 'tis thyself, and that's a worse deceit.
Beware the public laughter of the town;
Thou spring'st a leak already in thy crown;
A flaw is in thy ill-baked vessel found;
'Tis hollow, and returns a jarring sound.
Yet thy moist clay is pliant to command,
Unwrought, and easy to the potter's hand:
Now take the mould; now bend thy mind to feel
The first sharp motions of the forming wheel.
But thou hast land; a country seat, secure
By a just title; costly furniture;
A fuming pan thy Lares to appease:
What need of learning when a man's at ease?
If this be not enough to swell thy soul,
Then please thy pride, and search the herald's roll,
Where thou shalt find thy famous pedigree
Drawn from the root of some old Tuscan tree,
And thou, a thousand off, a fool of long degree;
Who, clad in purple, canst thy censor greet,
And loudly call him cousin in the street.
Such pageantry be to the people shown:
There boast thy horse's trappings, and thy own.
I know thee to thy bottom, from within
Thy shallow centre, to the utmost skin:

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Dost thou not blush to live so like a beast,
So trim, so dissolute, so loosely drest?
But 'tis in vain; the wretch is drenched too deep,
His soul is stupid, and his heart asleep;
Fattened in vice, so callous, and so gross,
He sins, and sees not, senseless of his loss.
Down goes the wretch at once, unskilled to swim,
Hopeless to bubble up, and reach the water's brim.
Great father of the gods, when for our crimes
Thou send'st some heavy judgment on the times;
Some tyrant-king, the terror of his age,
The type, and true vicegerent of thy rage;
Thus punish him: set virtue in his sight,
With all her charms adorned, with all her graces bright;
But set her distant, make him pale to see
His gains outweighed by lost felicity!
Sicilian tortures, and the brazen bull,
Are emblems, rather than express the full
Of what he feels; yet what he fears is more:
The wretch, who, sitting at his plenteous board,
Looked up, and viewed on high the pointed sword
Hang o'er his head, and hanging by a twine,
Did with less dread, and more securely dine.

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Even in his sleep he starts, and fears the knife,
And, trembling, in his arms takes his accomplice wife;
Down, down he goes; and from his darling friend
Conceals the woes his guilty dreams portend.
When I was young, I, like a lazy fool,
Would blear my eyes with oil, to stay from school:
Averse from pains, and loth to learn the part
Of Cato, dying with a dauntless heart;
Though much my master that stern virtue praised,
Which o'er the vanquisher the vanquished raised;
And my pleased father came with pride to see
His boy defend the Roman liberty.
But then my study was to cog the dice,
And dexterously to throw the lucky sice;
To shun ames-ace, that swept my stakes away,
And watch the box, for fear they should convey
False bones, and put upon me in the play;
Careful, besides, the whirling top to whip,
And drive her giddy, till she fell asleep.
Thy years are ripe, nor art thou yet to learn
What's good or ill, and both their ends discern:
Thou in the Stoic-porch, severely bred,
Hast heard the dogmas of great Zeno read;
Where on the walls, by Polygnotus' hand,
The conquered Medians in trunk-breeches stand;

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Where the shorn youth to midnight lectures rise,
Roused from their slumbers to be early wise;
Where the coarse cake, and homely husks of beans,
From pampering riot the young stomach weans;
And where the Samian Y directs thy steps to run
To Virtue's narrow steep, and broad-way Vice to shun.
And yet thou snor'st, thou draw'st thy drunken breath,
Sour with debauch, and sleep'st the sleep of death:
Thy chaps are fallen, and thy frame disjoined;
Thy body is dissolved as is thy mind.
Hast thou not yet proposed some certain end,
To which thy life, thy every act, may tend?
Hast thou no mark, at which to bend thy bow?
Or, like a boy, pursuest the carrion crow
With pellets, and with stones, from tree to tree,
A fruitless toil, and livest extempore?
Watch the disease in time; for when within
The dropsy rages, and extends the skin,
In vain for hellebore the patient cries,
And fees the doctor, but too late is wise;
Too late, for cure he proffers half his wealth;
Conquest and Guibbons cannot give him health.
Learn, wretches, learn the motions of the mind,
Why you were made, for what you were designed,
And the great moral end of humankind.
Study thyself, what rank, or what degree,
The wise Creator has ordained for thee;

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And all the offices of that estate
Perform, and with thy prudence guide thy fate.
Pray justly to be heard, nor more desire
Than what the decencies of life require.
Learn what thou owest thy country, and thy friend;
What's requisite to spare, and what to spend:
Learn this; and after, envy not the store
Of the greased advocate, that grinds the poor;
Fat fees from the defended Umbrian draws,
And only gains the wealthy client's cause;
To whom the Marsians more provision send,
Than he and all his family can spend.
Gammons, that give a relish to the taste,
And potted fowl, and fish come in so fast,
That ere the first is out, the second stinks,
And mouldy mother gathers on the brinks.
But here some captain of the land, or fleet,
Stout of his hands, but of a soldier's wit,
Cries, “I have sense to serve my turn in store,
And he's a rascal who pretends to more.
Damn me, whate'er those book-learned blockheads say,
Solon's the veriest fool in all the play.
Top-heavy drones, and always looking down,
(As over-ballasted within the crown,)
Muttering betwixt their lips some mystic thing,
Which, well examined, is flat conjuring;
Mere madmen's dreams; for what the schools have taught,
Is only this, that nothing can be brought
From nothing, and what is can ne'er be turned to nought.

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Is it for this they study? to grow pale,
And miss the pleasures of a glorious meal?
For this, in rags accoutred, are they seen,
And made the May-game of the public spleen?”
Proceed, my friend, and rail; but hear me tell
A story, which is just thy parallel:—
A spark, like thee, of the man-killing trade,
Fell sick, and thus to his physician said,—
“Methinks I am not right in every part;
I feel a kind of trembling at my heart,
My pulse unequal, and my breath is strong,
Besides a filthy fur upon my tongue.”
The doctor heard him, exercised his skill,
And after bade him for four days be still.
Three days he took good counsel, and began
To mend, and look like a recovering man;
The fourth he could not hold from drink, but sends
His boy to one of his old trusty friends,
Adjuring him, by all the powers divine,
To pity his distress, who could not dine
Without a flagon of his healing wine.
He drinks a swilling draught; and, lined within,
Will supple in the bath his outward skin:
Whom should he find but his physician there,
Who wisely bade him once again beware.
“Sir, you look wan, you hardly draw your breath;
Drinking is dangerous, and the bath is death.”
“'Tis nothing,” says the fool; “But,” says the friend,
“This nothing, sir, will bring you to your end.
Do I not see your dropsy belly swell?
Your yellow skin?”—“No more of that; I'm well.
I have already buried two or three
That stood betwixt a fair estate and me,
And, doctor, I may live to bury thee.

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Thou tell'st me, I look ill; and thou look'st worse.”
“I've done,” says the physician; “take your course.”
The laughing sot, like all unthinking men,
Bathes, and gets drunk; then bathes, and drinks again:
His throat half throttled with corrupted phlegm,
And breathing through his jaws a belching steam,
Amidst his cups with fainting shivering seized,
His limbs disjointed, and all o'er diseased,
His hand refuses to sustain the bowl,
And his teeth chatter, and his eye-balls roll,
Till with his meat he vomits out his soul.
Then trumpets, torches, and a tedious crew
Of hireling mourners, for his funeral due.
Our dear departed brother lies in state,
His heels stretched out, and pointing to the gate;
And slaves, now manumized, on their dead master wait.
They hoist him on the bier, and deal the dole,
And there's an end of a luxurious fool.
“But what's thy fulsome parable to me?
My body is from all diseases free;
My temperate pulse does regularly beat;
Feel, and be satisfied, my hands and feet:
These are not cold, nor those opprest with heat.
Or lay thy hand upon my naked heart,
And thou shalt find me hale in every part.”
I grant this true; but still the deadly wound
Is in thy soul, 'tis there thou art not sound.
Say, when thou seest a heap of tempting gold,
Or a more tempting harlot dost behold;

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Then, when she casts on thee a sidelong glance,
Then try thy heart, and tell me if it dance.
Some coarse cold salad is before thee set;
Bread with the bran, perhaps, and broken meat;
Fall on, and try thy appetite to eat.
These are not dishes for thy dainty tooth:
What, hast thou got an ulcer in thy mouth?
Why stand'st thou picking? Is thy palate sore,
That beet and radishes will make thee roar?
Such is the unequal temper of thy mind,
Thy passions in extremes, and unconfined;
Thy hair so bristles with unmanly fears,
As fields of corn, that rise in bearded ears;
And when thy cheeks with flushing fury glow,
The rage of boiling caldrons is more slow,
When fed with fuel and with flames below.
With foam upon thy lips and sparkling eyes,
Thou say'st, and dost, in such outrageous wise,
That mad Orestes, if he saw the show,
Would swear thou wert the madder of the two.
 

The students used to write their notes on parchments; the inside, on which they wrote, was white; the other side was hairy, and commonly yellow. Quintilian reproves this custom, and advises rather table-books, lined with wax, and a style, like that we use in our vellum table-books, as more easy.

Before eating, it was customary to cut off some part of the meat, which was first put into a pan, or little dish, then into the fire, as an offering to the household gods: this they called a libation.

The Tuscans were accounted of most ancient nobility, Horace observes this in most of his compliments to Mæcenas, who was derived from the old kings of Tuscany; now the dominion of the Great Duke.

The Roman knights, attired in the robe called trabea, were summoned by the censor to appear before him, and to salute him in passing by, as their names were called over. They led their horses in their hands. See more of this in Pompey's Life, written by Plutarch.

Some of the Sicilian kings were so great tyrants, that the name is become proverbial. The brazen bull is a known story of Phalaris, one of those tyrants, who, when Perillus, a famous artist, had presented him with a bull of that metal hollowed within, which, when the condemned person was inclosed in it, would render the sound of a bull's roaring, caused the workman to make the first experiment—docuitque suum mugire juvencum.

He alludes to the story of Damocles, a flatterer of one of those Sicilian tyrants, namely Dionysius. Damocles had infinitely extolled the happiness of kings: Dionysius, to convince him of the contrary, invited him to a feast, and clothed him in purple; but caused a sword, with the point downward, to be hung over his head by a silken twine; which, when he perceived, he could eat nothing of the delicates that were set before him.

The Stoics taught their philosophy under a porticus, to secure their scholars from the weather. Zeno was the chief of that sect.

Polygnotus, a famous painter, who drew the pictures of the Medes and Persians conquered by Miltiades, Themistocles, and other Athenian captains, on the walls of the portico, in their natural habits.

Pythagoras, of Samos, made the allusion of the Y, or Greek upsilon, to Vice and Virtue. One side of the letter being broad, characters Vice, to which the ascent is wide and easy; the other side represents Virtue, to which the passage is strait and difficult; and perhaps our Saviour might also allude to this, in those noted words of the evangelist, “The way to heaven,” etc.

Casaubon here notes, that, among all the Romans who were brought up to learning, few, besides the orators or lawyers, grew rich.

Orestes was son to Agamemnon and Clytemnestra. Agamemnon, at his return from the Trojan wars, was slain by Ægysthus, the adulterer of Clytemnestra. Orestes, to revenge his father's death, slew both Ægysthus and his mother; for which he was punished with madness by the Eumenides, or Furies, who continually haunted him.


242

THE FOURTH SATIRE OF PERSIUS.

THE ARGUMENT.

Our author, living in the time of Nero, was contemporary and friend to the noble poet Lucan. Both of them were sufficiently sensible, with all good men, how unskilfully he managed the commonwealth; and perhaps might guess at his future tyranny by some passages during the latter part of his first five years; though he broke not out into his great excesses, while he was restrained by the counsels and authority of Seneca. Lucan has not spared him in the poem of his Pharsalia; for this very compliment looked asquint, as well as at Nero. Persius has been bolder, but with caution likewise. For here, in the person of young Alcibiades, he arraigns his ambition of meddling with state-affairs without judgment, or experience. It is probable that he makes Seneca, in this satire, sustain the part of Socrates, under a borrowed name; and, withal, discovers some secret vices of Nero, concerning his lust, his drunkenness, and his effeminacy, which had not yet arrived to public notice. He also reprehends the flattery of his courtiers, who endeavoured to make all his vices pass for virtues. Covetousness was undoubtedly none of his faults; but it is here described as a


243

veil cast over the true meaning of the poet, which was to satirise his prodigality and voluptuousness; to which he makes a transition. I find no instance in history of that emperor's being a Pathic, though Persius seems to brand him with it. From the two dialogues of Plato, both called “Alcibiades,” the poet took the arguments of the second and third satires; but he inverted the order of them, for the third satire is taken from the first of those dialogues.

The commentators before Casaubon were ignorant of our author's secret meaning; and thought he had only written against young noblemen in general, who were too forward in aspiring to public magistracy: but this excellent scholiast has unravelled the whole mystery, and made it apparent, that the sting of the satire was particularly aimed at Nero.

Whoe'er thou art, whose forward years are bent
On State affairs, to guide the government;
Hear first what Socrates of old has said
To the loved youth, whom he at Athens bred.
“Tell me, thou pupil to great Pericles,
Our second hope, my Alcibiades,
What are the grounds from whence thou dost prepare
To undertake, so young, so vast a care?
Perhaps thy wit; (a chance not often heard,
That parts and prudence should prevent the beard;)

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'Tis seldom seen, that senators so young
Know when to speak, and when to hold their tongue.
Sure thou art born to some peculiar fate,
When the mad people rise against the State,
To look them into duty, and command
An awful silence with thy lifted hand;
Then to bespeak them thus:—‘Athenians, know
Against right reason all your counsels go;
This is not fair, nor profitable that,
Nor t'other question proper for debate.’
But thou, no doubt, canst set the business right,
And give each argument its proper weight;
Know'st, with an equal hand, to hold the scale;
Seest where the reasons pinch, and where they fail,
And where exceptions o'er the general rule prevail;
And, taught by inspiration, in a trice,
Canst punish crimes, and brand offending vice.
“Leave, leave to fathom such high points as these,
Nor be ambitious, e'er thy time, to please,
Unseasonably wise; till age and cares
Have formed thy soul to manage great affairs.
Thy face, thy shape, thy outside, are but vain;
Thou hast not strength such labours to sustain;
Drink hellebore, my boy; drink deep, and purge thy brain.

245

“What aim'st thou at, and whither tends thy care,
In what thy utmost good? Delicious fare;
And then, to sun thyself in open air.
“Hold, hold; are all thy empty wishes such?
A good old woman would have said as much.
But thou art nobly born: 'tis true; go boast
Thy pedigree, the thing thou valuest most:
Besides, thou art a beau; what's that, my child?
A fop, well drest, extravagant, and wild:
She that cries herbs, has less impertinence,
And in her calling more of common sense.
“None, none descends into himself, to find
The secret imperfections of his mind;
But every one is eagle-eyed, to see
Another's faults, and his deformity.
Say, dost thou know Vectidius?” —“Who? the wretch
Whose lands beyond the Sabines largely stretch;
Cover the country, that a sailing kite
Can scarce o'erfly them in a day and night;
Him dost thou mean, who, spite of all his store,
Is ever craving, and will still be poor?
Who cheats for half-pence, and who doffs his coat,
To save a farthing in a ferry-boat?
Ever a glutton at another's cost,
But in whose kitchen dwells perpetual frost?
Who eats and drinks with his domestic slaves,
A verier hind than any of his knaves?
Born with the curse and anger of the gods,
And that indulgent genius he defrauds?

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At harvest-home, and on the shearing-day,
When he should thanks to Pan and Pales pay,
And better Ceres, trembling to approach
The little barrel, which he fears to broach;
He 'says the wimble, often draws it back,
And deals to thirsty servants but a smack.
To a short meal he makes a tedious grace,
Before the barley-pudding comes in place:
Then bids fall on; himself, for saving charges,
A peeled sliced onion eats, and tipples verjuice?”
“Thus fares the drudge: but thou, whose life's a dream
Of lazy pleasures, tak'st a worse extreme.
'Tis all thy business, business how to shun;
To bask thy naked body in the sun;
Suppling thy stiffened joints with fragrant oil:
Then, in thy spacious garden walk awhile,
To suck the moisture up, and soak it in;
And this, thou think'st, but vainly think'st, unseen.
But know, thou art observed; and there are those,
Who, if they durst, would all thy secret sins expose;
The depilation of thy modest part;
Thy catamite, the darling of thy heart,
His engine-hand, and every lewder art,
When, prone to bear, and patient to receive,
Thou tak'st the pleasure which thou canst not give.
With odorous oil thy head and hair are sleek,
And then thou kemb'st the tuzzes on thy cheek;

247

Of these thy barbers take a costly care,
While thy salt tail is overgrown with hair
Not all thy pincers, nor unmanly arts,
Can smooth the roughness of thy shameful parts.
Not five, the strongest that the Circus breeds,
From the rank soil can root those wicked weeds,
Though suppled first with soap, to ease thy pain;
The stubborn fern springs up, and sprouts again.
“Thus others we with defamations wound,
While they stab us, and so the jest goes round.
Vain are thy hopes, to 'scape censorious eyes;
Truth will appear through all the thin disguise:
Thou hast an ulcer which no leach can heal,
Though thy broad shoulder-belt the wound conceal.
Say thou art sound and hale in every part,
We know, we know thee rotten at thy heart.
We know thee sullen, impotent, and proud:
Nor canst thou cheat thy nerve, who cheat'st the crowd.”
“But when they praise me in the neighbourhood,
When the pleased people take me for a god,

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Shall I refuse their incense? Not receive
The loud applauses which the vulgar give?”
“If thou dost wealth with longing eyes behold,
And greedily art gaping after gold;
If some alluring girl, in gliding by,
Shall tip the wink, with a lascivious eye,
And thou, with a consenting glance, reply;
If thou thy own solicitor become,
And bidst arise the lumpish pendulum;
If thy lewd lust provokes an empty storm,
And prompts to more than nature can perform;
If, with thy guards, thou scour'st the streets by night,
And dost in murders, rapes, and spoils delight;
Please not thyself, the flattering crowd to hear,
'Tis fulsome stuff to feed thy itching ear.
Reject the nauseous praises of the times;
Give thy base poets back their cobbled rhymes:
Survey thy soul, not what thou dost appear,
But what thou art, and find the beggar there.”
 

The compliment, at the opening of the Pharsalia, has been thought sarcastic. It certainly sounds so in modern ears: if Nero could only attain empire by civil war, as the gods by that of the giants, then says the poet,

— Scelera ipsa nefasque
Hac mercede placent —

Socrates, whom the oracle of Delphos praised as the wisest man of his age, lived in the time of the Peloponnesian war. He, finding the uncertainty of natural philosophy, applied himself wholly to the moral. He was master to Xenophon and Plato, and to many of the Athenian young noblemen; amongst the rest to Alcibiades, the most lovely youth then living; afterwards a famous captain, whose life is written by Plutarch.

Pericles was tutor, or rather overseer, of the will of Clinias, father to Alcibiades. While Pericles lived, who was a wise man, and an excellent orator, as well as a great general, the Athenians had the better of the war.

That is, by death. When the judges would condemn a malefactor, they cast their votes into an urn; as according to the modern custom, a balloting-box. If the suffrages were marked with Θ, they signified the sentence of death to the offender; as being the first letter of Θανατος, which, in English, is death.

The poet would say, that such an ignorant young man, as he here describes, is fitter to be governed himself than to govern others. He therefore advises him to drink hellebore, which purges the brain.

The name of Vectidius is here used appellatively, to signify any rich covetous man, though perhaps there might be a man of that name then living. I have translated this passage paraphrastically, and loosely; and leave it for those to look on, who are not unlike the picture.

Pan, the god of shepherds, and Pales, the goddess presiding over rural affairs; whom Virgil invocates in the beginning of his second Georgic. I give the epithet of better to Ceres, because she first taught the use of corn for bread, as the poets tell us; men, in the first rude ages, feeding only on acorns, or mast, instead of bread.

The learned Holyday (who has made us amends for his bad poetry in this and the rest of these satires, with his excellent illustrations), here tells us, from good authority, that the number five does not allude to the five fingers of one man, but to five strong men, such as were skilful in the five robust exercises then in practice at Rome, and were performed in the circus, or public place ordained for them. These five he reckons up in this manner: 1. The cæstus, or whirlbats, described by Virgil in his fifth Æneid; and this was the most dangerous of all the rest. The 2d was the foot-race. The 3d, the discus, like the throwing a weighty ball, a sport now used in Cornwall, and other parts of England; we may see it daily practised in Red-Lion Fields. The 4th was the saltus or leaping; and the 5th, wrestling naked and besmeared with oil. They who practised in these five manly exercises were called Πενταθλοι.

Persius durst not have been so bold with Nero as I dare now; and therefore there is only an intimation of that in him which I publicly speak; I mean, of Nero's walking the streets by night in disguise, and committing all sorts of outrages, for which he was sometimes well beaten.

Look into thyself, and examine thy own conscience; there thou shalt find that, how wealthy soever thou appearest to the world, yet thou art but a beggar; because thou art destitute of all virtues, which are the riches of the soul. This also was a paradox of the Stoic school.


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THE FIFTH SATIRE OF PERSIUS.

INSCRIBED TO THE REV. DR. BUSBY.
THE SPEAKERS PERSIUS AND CORNUTUS.

THE ARGUMENT.

The judicious Casaubon, in his proem to this Satire, tells us that Aristophanes, the grammarian, being asked what poem of Archilochus' iambics he preferred before the rest, answered, the longest. His answer may justly be applied to the Fifth Satire; which, being of a greater length than any of the rest, is also by far the most instructive. For this reason I have selected it from all the others, and inscribed it to my learned master, Dr. Busby; to whom I am not only obliged myself for the best part of my own education, and that of my two sons; but have also received from him the first and truest taste of Persius. May he be pleased to find, in this translation, the gratitude, or at least some small acknowledgment, of his unworthy scholar, at the distance of forty-two years from the time when I departed from under his tuition.

This Satire consists of two distinct parts: the first contains the praises of the Stoic philosopher, Cornutus, master and tutor to our Persius; it also declares the love and piety of Persius to his well-deserving master; and the mutual friendship


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which continued betwixt them, after Persius was now grown a man; as also his exhortation to young noblemen, that they would enter themselves into his institution. From hence he makes an artful transition into the second part of his subject; wherein he first complains of the sloth of scholars, and afterwards persuades them to the pursuit of their true liberty. Here our author excellently treats that paradox of the Stoics which affirms that the wise or virtuous man is only free, and that all vicious men are naturally slaves; and, in the illustration of this dogma, he takes up the remaining part of this inimitable Satire.

PERSIUS.
Of ancient use to poets it belongs,
To wish themselves an hundred mouths and tongues:
Whether to the well-lunged tragedian's rage
They recommend their labours of the stage,
Or sing the Parthian, when transfixed he lies,
Wrenching the Roman javelin from his thighs.

CORNUTUS.
And why would'st thou these mighty morsels choose,
Of words unchewed, and fit to choke the muse?
Let fustian poets with their stuff begone,
And suck the mists that hang o'er Helicon;
When Progne, or Thyestes' feast they write;
And, for the mouthing actor, verse indite.
Thou neither like a bellows swell'st thy face,
As if thou wert to blow the burning mass

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Of melting ore; nor canst thou strain thy throat,
Or murmur in an undistinguished note,
Like rolling thunder, till it breaks the cloud,
And rattling nonsense is discharged aloud.
Soft elocution does thy style renown,
And the sweet accents of the peaceful gown:
Gentle or sharp, according to thy choice,
To laugh at follies, or to lash at vice.
Hence draw thy theme, and to the stage permit
Raw-head and bloody-bones, and hands and feet,
Ragouts for Tereus or Thyestes drest;
'Tis task enough for thee t'expose a Roman feast.

PERSIUS.
'Tis not, indeed, my talent to engage
In lofty trifles, or to swell my page
With wind and noise; but freely to impart,
As to a friend, the secrets of my heart,
And, in familiar speech, to let thee know
How much I love thee, and how much I owe
Knock on my heart; for thou hast skill to find
If it sound solid, or be filled with wind;
And, through the veil of words, thou view'st the naked mind.
For this a hundred voices I desire,
To tell thee what an hundred tongues would tire,
Yet never could be worthily exprest,—
How deeply thou art seated in my breast.
When first my childish robe resigned the charge,
And left me, unconfined, to live at large;

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When now my golden bulla (hung on high
To household gods) declared me past a boy,
And my white shield proclaimed my liberty;
When, with my wild companions, I could roll
From street to street, and sin without control;
Just at that age, when manhood set me free,
I then deposed myself, and left the reins to thee;
On thy wise bosom I reposed my head,
And by my better Socrates was bred.
Then thy straight rule set virtue in my sight,
The crooked line reforming by the right.
My reason took the bent of thy command,
Was formed and polished by thy skilful hand;
Long summer-days thy precepts I rehearse,
And winter-nights were short in our converse;
One was our labour, one was our repose,
One frugal supper did our studies close.
Sure on our birth some friendly planet shone;
And, as our souls, our horoscope was one:
Whether the mounting Twins did heaven adorn,
Or with the rising Balance we were born;
Both have the same impressions from above,
And both have Saturn's rage, repelled by Jove.

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What star I know not, but some star, I find,
Has given thee an ascendant o'er my mind.

CORNUTUS.
Nature is ever various in her frame;
Each has a different will, and few the same.
The greedy merchants, led by lucre, run
To the parched Indies, and the rising sun;
From thence hot pepper and rich drugs they bear,
Bartering for spices their Italian ware;
The lazy glutton safe at home will keep,
Indulge his sloth, and batten with his sleep:
One bribes for high preferments in the state;
A second shakes the box, and sits up late;
Another shakes the bed, dissolving there,
Till knots upon his gouty joints appear,
And chalk is in his crippled fingers found;
Rots, like a doddered oak, and piecemeal falls to ground;
Then his lewd follies he would late repent,
And his past years, that in a mist were spent.

PERSIUS.
But thou art pale in nightly studies grown,
To make the Stoic institutes thy own:
Thou long, with studious care, hast tilled our youth,
And sown our well-purged ears with wholesome truth.

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From thee both old and young with profit learn
The bounds of good and evil to discern.

CORNUTUS.
Unhappy he who does this work adjourn,
And to to-morrow would the search delay;
His lazy morrow will be like to-day.

PERSIUS.
But is one day of ease too much to borrow?

CORNUTUS.
Yes, sure; for yesterday was once to-morrow.
That yesterday is gone, and nothing gained,
And all thy fruitless days will thus be drained;
For thou hast more to-morrows yet to ask,
And wilt be ever to begin thy task;
Who, like the hindmost chariot-wheels, art curst,
Still to be near, but ne'er to reach the first.
O freedom, first delight of humankind!
Not that which bondmen from their masters find,
The privilege of doles; nor yet to inscribe
Their names in this or t'other Roman tribe;
That false enfranchisement with ease is found,
Slaves are made citizens by turning round.

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“How,” replies one, “can any be more free?
Here's Dama, once a groom of low degree,
Not worth a farthing, and a sot beside,
So true a rogue, for lying's sake he lied;
But, with a turn, a freeman he became,
Now Marcus Dama is his worship's name.
Good gods! who would refuse to lend a sum,
If wealthy Marcus surety will become!
Marcus is made a judge, and for a proof
Of certain truth, ‘He said it,’ is enough.
A will is to be proved;—put in your claim;—
'Tis clear, if Marcus has subscribed his name.
This is true liberty, as I believe;
What further can we from our caps receive,
Than as we please without control to live?
Not more to noble Brutus could belong.”
“Hold,” says the Stoic, “your assumption's wrong:
I grant true freedom you have well defined:
But, living as you list, and to your mind,
Are loosely tacked, and must be left behind.”
“What! since the prætor did my fetters loose,
And left me freely at my own dispose,
May I not live without control or awe,
Excepting still the letter of the law?”

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“Hear me with patience, while thy mind I free
From those fond notions of false liberty:
'Tis not the prætor's province to bestow
True freedom; nor to teach mankind to know
What to ourselves, or to our friends, we owe.
He could not set thee free from cares and strife,
Nor give the reins to a lewd vicious life:
As well he for an ass a harp might string,
Which is against the reason of the thing;
For reason still is whispering in your ear,
Where you are sure to fail, the attempt forbear.
No need of public sanctions this to bind,
Which nature has implanted in the mind,—
Not to pursue the work, to which we're not designed.
Unskilled in hellebore, if thou should'st try
To mix it, and mistake the quantity,
The rules of physic would against thee cry.
The high-shoed ploughman, should he quit the land,
To take the pilot's rudder in his hand,
Artless of stars, and of the moving sand,
The gods would leave him to the waves and wind,
And think all shame was lost in humankind.
Tell me, my friend, from whence hadst thou the skill,
So nicely to distinguish good from ill?
Or by the sound to judge of gold and brass,
What piece is tinkers' metal, what will pass?
And what thou art to follow, what to fly,
This to condemn, and that to ratify?
When to be bountiful, and when to spare,
But never craving, or oppressed with care?
The baits of gifts, and money to despise,
And look on wealth with undesiring eyes?
When thou canst truly call these virtues thine,
Be wise and free, by heaven's consent and mine.

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But thou, who lately of the common strain
Wert one of us, if still thou dost retain
The same ill habits, the same follies too,
Glossed over only with a saint-like show,
Then I resume the freedom which I gave;
Still thou art bound to vice, and still a slave.
Thou canst not wag thy finger, or begin
The least light motion, but it tends to sin.”
“How's this? Not wag my finger?” he replies.
“No, friend; nor fuming gums, nor sacrifice,
Can ever make a madman free, or wise.
‘Virtue and vice are never in one soul;
A man is wholly wise, or wholly is a fool.’
A heavy bumpkin, taught with daily care,
Can never dance three steps with a becoming air.”

PERSIUS.
In spite of this, my freedom still remains.

CORNUTUS.
Free! what? and fettered with so many chains?
Canst thou no other master understand
Than him that freed thee by the prætor's wand?
Should he, who was thy lord, command thee now,
With a harsh voice, and supercilious brow,

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To servile duties, thou wouldst fear no more;
The gallows and the whip are out of door.
But if thy passions lord it in thy breast,
Art thou not still a slave, and still opprest?
Whether alone, or in thy harlot's lap,
When thou wouldst take a lazy morning's nap,
“Up, up,” says Avarice;—thou snor'st again,
Stretchest thy limbs, and yawn'st, but all in vain;
The tyrant Lucre no denial takes;
At his command the unwilling sluggard wakes.
“What must I do?” he cries.—“What?” says his lord;
“Why rise, make ready, and go straight aboard;
With fish, from Euxine seas, thy vessel freight;
Flax, castor, Coan wines, the precious weight
Of pepper, and Sabæan incense, take,
With thy own hands, from the tired camel's back,
And with post haste thy running markets make.
Be sure to turn the penny; lie and swear,
'Tis wholesome sin.”—“But Jove,” thou say'st, “will hear.”—
“Swear, fool, or starve; for the dilemma's even:
A tradesman thou, and hope to go to heaven!”
Resolved for sea, the slaves thy baggage pack,
Each saddled with his burden on his back:
Nothing retards thy voyage now, unless
Thy other lord forbids, Voluptuousness:
And he may ask this civil question,—“Friend,
What dost thou make a-shipboard? to what end?
Art thou of Bethlem's noble college free,
Stark, staring mad, that thou wouldst tempt the sea?
Cubbed in a cabin, on a mattress laid,
On a brown george with lousy swobbers fed,

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Dead wine, that stinks of the borrachio, sup
From a foul jack, or greasy maple-cup?
Say, wouldst thou bear all this, to raise thy store
From six i' the hundred, to six hundred more?
Indulge, and to thy genius freely give;
For, not to live at ease, is not to live;
Death stalks behind thee, and each flying hour
Does some loose remnant of thy life devour.
Live while thou liv'st; for death will make us all
A name, a nothing but an old wife's tale.”
Speak; wilt thou Avarice, or Pleasure, choose
To be thy lord? Take one, and one refuse.
But both by turns the rule of thee will have,
And thou betwixt them both wilt be a slave.
Nor think when once thou hast resisted one,
That all thy marks of servitude are gone:
The struggling greyhound gnaws his leash in vain,
If, when 'tis broken, still he drags the chain.
Says Phædria to his man, “Believe me, friend,
To this uneasy love I'll put an end.”
“Shall I run out of all, my friends disgrace,
And be the first lewd unthrift of my race?
Shall I the neighbour's nightly rest invade
At her deaf doors, with some vile serenade?”

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“Well hast thou freed thyself,” his man replies,
“Go, thank the gods, and offer sacrifice.”
“Ah,” says the youth, “if we unkindly part,
Will not the poor fond creature break her heart?”
“Weak soul! and blindly to destruction led!
She break her heart! she'll sooner break your head.
She knows her man, and when you rant and swear,
Can draw you to her with a single hair.”
“But shall I not return? Now, when she sues!
Shall I my own and her desires refuse?”
“Sir, take your course; but my advice is plain:
Once freed, 'tis madness to resume your chain.”
Ay; there's the man, who, loosed from lust and pelf,
Less to the prætor owes than to himself.
But write him down a slave, who, humbly proud,
With presents begs preferments from the crowd;
That early suppliant, who salutes the tribes,
And sets the mob to scramble for his bribes,
That some old dotard, sitting in the sun,
On holidays may tell, that such a feat was done:
In future times this will be counted rare.
Thy superstition too may claim a share:
When flowers are strewed, and lamps in order placed,
And windows with illuminations graced,

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On Herod's day; when sparkling bowls go round,
And tunny's tails in savoury sauce are drowned,
Thou mutter'st prayers obscene; nor dost refuse
The fasts and Sabbaths of the curtailed Jews.
Then a cracked egg-shell thy sick fancy frights,
Besides the childish fear of walking sprites.
Of o'ergrown gelding priests thou art afraid;
The timbrel, and the squintifego maid
Of Isis, awe thee; lest the gods for sin,
Should with a swelling dropsy stuff thy skin:
Unless three garlic heads the curse avert,
Eaten each morn devoutly next thy heart.
“Preach this among the brawny guards,” say'st thou,
“And see if they thy doctrine will allow:”
The dull, fat captain, with a hound's deep throat,
Would bellow out a laugh in a bass note,
And prize a hundred Zenos just as much
As a clipt sixpence, or a schilling Dutch.

 

Progne was wife to Tereus, king of Thracia. Tereus fell in love with Philomela, sister to Progne, ravished her, and cut out her tongue; in revenge of which, Progne killed Itys, her own son by Tereus, and served him up at a feast, to be eaten by his father.

Thyestes and Atreus were brothers, both kings. Atreus, to revenge himself of his unnatural brother, killed the sons of Thyestes, and invited him to eat them.

By the childish robe is meant the Prœtexta, or first gowns which the Roman children of quality wore. These were welted with purple; and on those welts were fastened the bullæ, or little bells; which, when they came to the age of puberty, were hung up, and consecrated to the Lares, or household gods.

The first shields which the Roman youths wore were white, and without any impress or device on them, to show they had yet achieved nothing in the wars.

Socrates, by the oracle, was declared to be the wisest of mankind: he instructed many of the Athenian young noblemen in morality, and amongst the rest Alcibiades.

Astrologers divide the heaven into twelve parts, according to the number of the twelve signs of the zodiac. The sign, or constellation, which rises in the east at the birth of any man, is called the Ascendant: Persius therefore judges that Cornutus and he had the same or a like nativity.

Astrologers have an axiom, that whatsoever Saturn ties is loosed by Jupiter. They account Saturn to be a planet of a malevolent nature, and Jupiter of a propitious influence.

Zeno was the great master of the Stoic philosophy; and Cleanthes was second to him in reputation. Cornutus, who was master or tutor to Persius, was of the same school.

When a slave was made free, he had the privilege of a Roman born; which was to have a share in the donatives, or doles of bread, etc., which were distributed by the magistrates among the people.

The Roman people was distributed into several tribes. He who was made free was enrolled into some one of them; and thereupon enjoyed the common privileges of a Roman citizen.

The master who intended to enfranchise a slave carried him before the city prætor, and turned him round, using these words, “I will that this man be free.”

Slaves had only one name before their freedom; after it they were admitted to a prænomen like our christened names: so Dama is now called Marcus Dama.

At the proof of a testament, the magistrates were to subscribe their names, as allowing the legality of the will.

Slaves, when they were set free, had a cap given them, in sign of their liberty.

Brutus freed the Roman people from the tyranny of the Tarquins, and changed the form of the government into a glorious commonwealth.

The text of the Roman laws was written in red letters, which was called the Rubric; translated here, in more general words, “The letter of the law.”

The Stoics held this paradox, that any one vice, or notorious folly, which they called madness, hindered a man from being virtuous; that a man was of a piece, without a mixture, either wholly vicious, or good; one virtue or vice, according to them, including all the rest.

The prætor held a wand in his hand, with which he softly struck the slave on the head, when he declared him free.

This alludes to the play of Terence, called “The Eunuch;” which was excellently imitated of late in English, by Sir Charles Sedley. In the first scene of that comedy Phædria was introduced with his man, Pamphilus, discoursing whether he should leave his mistress Thais, or return to her, now that she had invited him.

He who sued for any office amongst the Romans was called a candidate, because he wore a white gown; and sometimes chalked it, to make it appear whiter. He rose early, and went to the levees of those who headed the people; saluted also the tribes severally, when they were gathered together to choose their magistrates; and distributed a largess amongst them, to engage them for their voices; much resembling our elections of Parliament-men.

The commentators are divided what Herod this was, whom our author mentions; whether Herod the Great, whose birthday might possibly be celebrated, after his death, by the Herodians, a sect amongst the Jews, who thought him their Messiah; or Herod Agrippa, living in the author's time and after it. The latter seems the more probable opinion.

The ancients had a superstition, contrary to ours, concerning egg-shells: they thought that if an egg-shell were cracked, or a hole bored in the bottom of it, they were subject to the power of sorcery. We as vainly break the bottom of an egg-shell, and cross it when we have eaten the egg, lest some hag should make use of it in bewitching us, or sailing over the sea in it, if it were whole. The rest of the priests of Isis, and her one-eyed or squinting priestess, is more largely treated in the Sixth Satire of Juvenal, where the superstitions of women are related.


262

THE SIXTH SATIRE OF PERSIUS.

TO CÆSIUS BASSUS, A LYRIC POET.

THE ARGUMENT.

This Sixth Satire treats an admirable common-place of moral philosophy, of the true uses of riches. They are certainly intended by the Power who bestows them, as instruments and helps of living commodiously ourselves; and of administering to the wants of others, who are oppressed by fortune. There are two extremes in the opinions of men concerning them. One error, though on the right hand, yet a great one, is that they are no helps to a virtuous life; the other places all our happiness in the acquisition and possession of them; and this is undoubtedly the worse extreme. The mean betwixt these, is the opinion of the Stoics, which is, that riches may be useful to the leading a virtuous life; in case we rightly understand how to give according to the right reason, and how to receive what is given us by others. The virtue of giving well is called liberality; and it is of this virtue that Persius writes in this satire, wherein he not only shows the lawful use of riches, but also sharply inveighs against the vices which are opposed to it; and especially of those, which consist in the


263

defects of giving, or spending, or in the abuse of riches. He writes to Cæsius Bassus, his friend, and a poet also: inquires first of his health and studies; and afterwards informs him of his own, and where he is now resident. He gives an account of himself, that he is endeavouring, by little and little, to wear off his vices; and, particularly, that he is combating ambition, and the desire of wealth. He dwells upon the latter vice; and, being sensible that few men either desire, or use, riches as they ought, he endeavours to convince them of their folly, which is the main design of the whole Satire.

Has winter caused thee, friend, to change thy seat,
And seek in Sabine air a warm retreat?
Say, dost thou yet the Roman harp command?
Do the strings answer to thy noble hand?
Great master of the muse, inspired to sing
The beauties of the first created spring;
The pedigree of nature to rehearse,
And sound the Maker's work, in equal verse;
Now sporting on thy lyre the loves of youth,
Now virtuous age, and venerable truth;
Expressing justly Sappho's wanton art
Of odes, and Pindar's more majestic part.
For me, my warmer constitution wants
More cold, than our Ligurian winter grants;

264

And therefore to my native shores retired,
I view the coast old Ennius once admired;
Where clifts on either side their points display,
And, after opening in an ampler way,
Afford the pleasing prospect of the bay.
“'Tis worth your while, O Romans, to regard
The port of Luna,” says our learned bard;
Who in a drunken dream beheld his soul
The fifth within the transmigrating roll;
Which first a peacock, then Euphorbus was,
Then Homer next, and next Pythagoras;
And, last of all the line, did into Ennius pass.
Secure and free from business of the state,
And more secure of what the vulgar prate,
Here I enjoy my private thoughts, nor care
What rots for sheep the southern winds prepare;
Survey the neighbouring fields, and not repine,
When I behold a larger crop than mine:
To see a beggar's brat in riches flow,
Adds not a wrinkle to my even brow;
Nor, envious at the sight, will I forbear
My plenteous bowl, nor bate my bounteous cheer;
Nor yet unseal the dregs of wine that stink
Of cask, nor in a nasty flagon drink.

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Let others stuff their guts with homely fare,
For men of different inclinations are,
Though born perhaps beneath one common star.
In minds and manners twins opposed we see
In the same sign, almost the same degree:
One, frugal, on his birthday fears to dine,
Does at a penny's cost in herbs repine,
And hardly dares to dip his fingers in the brine;
Prepared as priest of his own rites to stand,
He sprinkles pepper with a sparing hand.
His jolly brother, opposite in sense,
Laughs at his thrift; and lavish of expense,
Quaffs, crams, and guttles, in his own defence.
For me, I'll use my own, and take my share,
Yet will not turbots for my slaves prepare;
Nor be so nice in taste myself to know
If what I swallow be a thrush, or no.
Live on thy annual income, spend thy store,
And freely grind from thy full threshing floor;
Next harvest promises as much, or more.
Thus I would live; but friendship's holy band,
And offices of kindness, hold my hand:
My friend is shipwrecked on the Bruttian strand,
His riches in the Ionian main are lost,
And he himself stands shivering on the coast;

266

Where, destitute of help, forlorn and bare,
He wearies the deaf gods with fruitless prayer.
Their images, the relics of the wreck,
Torn from the naked poop, are tided back
By the wild waves, and, rudely thrown ashore,
Lie impotent, nor can themselves restore;
The vessel sticks, and shows her opened side,
And on her shattered mast the mews in triumph ride.
From thy new hope, and from thy growing store,
Now lend assistance, and relieve the poor;
Come, do a noble act of charity,
A pittance of thy land will set him free.
Let him not bear the badges of a wreck,
Nor beg with a blue table on his back;
Nor tell me, that thy frowning heir will say,
“'Tis mine that wealth thou squander'st thus away:”

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What is't to thee, if he neglect thy urn?
Or without spices lets thy body burn?
If odours to thy ashes he refuse,
Or buys corrupted cassia from the Jews?
“All these,” the wiser Bestius will reply,
“Are empty pomp, and dead-men's luxury:”
We never knew this vain expense before
The effeminated Grecians brought it o'er:
Now toys and trifles from their Athens come,
And dates and pepper have unsinewed Rome.
Our sweating hinds their salads now defile,
Infecting homely herbs with fragrant oil.
But to thy fortune be not thou a slave;
For what hast thou to fear beyond the grave?
And thou, who gap'st for my estate, draw near;
For I would whisper somewhat in thy ear.
Hear'st thou the news, my friend? the express is come,
With laurelled letters, from the camp to Rome:
Cæsar salutes the queen and senate thus:—
“My arms are on the Rhine victorious.

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From mourning altars sweep the dust away,
Cease fasting, and proclaim a fat thanksgiving-day.”
The goodly empress, jollily inclined,
Is to the welcome bearer wondrous kind;
And, setting her good housewifery aside,
Prepares for all the pageantry of pride.
The captive Germans, of gigantic size,
Are ranked in order, and are clad in frize:
The spoils of kings, and conquered camps we boast,
Their arms in trophies hang on the triumphal post.
Now for so many glorious actions done
In foreign parts, and mighty battles won;
For peace at home, and for the public wealth,
I mean to crown a bowl to Cæsar's health.
Besides, in gratitude for such high matters,
Know I have vowed two hundred gladiators.
Say, wouldst thou hinder me from this expense?
I disinherit thee, if thou dar'st take offence.
Yet more, a public largess I design
Of oil and pies, to make the people dine;

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Control me not, for fear I change my will.
And yet methinks I hear thee grumbling still,—
“You give as if you were the Persian king;
Your land does not so large revenues bring.”
Well, on my terms thou wilt not be my heir?
If thou car'st little, less shall be my care.
Were none of all my father's sisters left;
Nay, were I of my mother's kin bereft;
None by an uncle's or a grandame's side,
Yet I could some adopted heir provide.
I need but take my journey half a day
From haughty Rome, and at Aricia stay,
Where fortune throws poor Manius in my way.
Him will I choose:—“What? him of humble birth,
Obscure, a foundling, and a son of earth?”
Obscure! Why, pr'ythee, what am I? I know
My father, grandsire, and great-grandsire too:
If further I derive my pedigree,
I can but guess beyond the fourth degree.
The rest of my forgotten ancestors
Were sons of earth, like him, or sons of whores.
Yet why shouldst thou, old covetous wretch, aspire
To be my heir, who mightst have been my sire?
In nature's race, shouldst thou demand of me
My torch, when I in course run after thee?
Think I approach thee, like the god of gain,
With wings on head and heels, as poets feign:
Thy moderate fortune from my gift receive;
Now fairly take it, or as fairly leave.

270

But take it as it is, and ask no more.
“What, when thou hast embezzled all thy store?
Where's all thy father left?”—'Tis true, I grant,
Some I have mortgaged to supply my want:
The legacies of Tadius too are flown,
All spent, and on the selfsame errand gone.
“How little then to my poor share will fall!”
Little indeed; but yet that little's all.
Nor tell me, in a dying father's tone,—
“Be careful still of the main chance, my son;
Put out thy principal in trusty hands,
Live on the use, and never dip thy lands.”
“But yet what's left for me?”—What's left, my friend!
Ask that again, and all the rest I spend.
Is not my fortune at my own command?
Pour oil, and pour it with a plenteous hand
Upon my salads, boy: shall I be fed
With sodden nettles, and a singed sow's head?
'Tis holiday, provide me better cheer;
'Tis holiday, and shall be round the year.
Shall I my household gods and genius cheat,
To make him rich who grudges me my meat,
That he may loll at ease, and, pampered high,
When I am laid, may feed on giblet-pie,
And, when his throbbing lust extends the vein,
Have wherewithal his whores to entertain?
Shall I in homespun cloth be clad, that he
His paunch in triumph may before him see?
Go, miser, go; for lucre sell thy soul;
Truck wares for wares, and trudge from pole to pole,
That men may say, when thou art dead and gone,
“See what a vast estate he left his son!”

271

How large a family of brawny knaves,
Well fed, and fat as Cappadocian slaves!
Increase thy wealth, and double all thy store;
'Tis done; now double that, and swell the score;
To every thousand add ten thousand more.
Then say, Chrysippus, thou who wouldst confine
Thy heap, where I shall put an end to mine.
 

All the studious, and particularly the poets, about the end of August, began to set themselves on work, refraining from writing during the heats of the summer. They wrote by night, and sat up the greatest part of it; for which reason the product of their studies was called their elucubrations, or nightly labours. They who had country-seats retired to them while they studied, as Persius did to his, which was near the port of the Moon in Etruria; and Bassus to his, which was in the country of the Sabines, nearer Rome.

This proves Cæsius Bassus to have been a lyric poet. It is said of him, that by an eruption of the flaming mountain Vesuvius, near which the greatest part of his fortune lay, he was burnt himself, together with all his writings.

I call it a drunken dream of Ennius; not that my author in this place gives me any encouragement for the epithet, but because Horace, and all who mention Ennius, say he was an excessive drinker of wine. In a dream, or vision, call you it which you please, he thought it was revealed to him, that the soul of Pythagoras was transmigrated into him; as Pythagoras before him believed that himself had been Euphorbus in the wars of Troy. Commentators differ in placing the order of this soul, and who had it first. I have here given it to the peacock; because it looks more according to the order of nature, that it should lodge in a creature of an inferior species, and so by gradation rise to the informing of a man. And Persius favours me, by saying, that Ennius was the fifth from the Pythagorean peacock.

Perhaps this is only a fine transition of the poet, to introduce the business of the satire; and not that any such accident had happened to one of the friends of Persius. But, however, this is the most poetical description of any in our author; and since he and Lucan were so great friends, I know not but Lucan might help him in two or three of these verses, which seem to be written in his style; certain it is, that besides this description of a shipwreck, and two lines more which are at the end of the second satire, our poet has written nothing elegantly. I will, therefore, transcribe both the passages, to justify my opinion. The following are the last verses, saving one, of the second satire—

Compositum jus, fasque animi; sanctosque recessus
Mentis, et incoctum generoso pectus honesto.

The others are those in this present satire, which are sub joined—

— trabe rupta, Bruttia saxa
Prendit amicus inops: remque omnem, surdaque vota
Condidit Ionio, jacet ipse in littore, et una
Ingentes de puppe Dei, jamque obvia mergis
Costa ratis laceræ.

The Latin is, Nunc et de cespite vivo, frange aliquid. Casaubon only opposes the cespes vivus, which, word for word, is the living turf, to the harvest, or annual income; I suppose the poet rather means, sell a piece of land already sown, and give the money of it to my friend, who has lost all by shipwreck; that is, do not stay till thou hast reaped, but help him immediately, as his wants require.

Holyday translates it a green table: the sense is the same; for the table was painted of the sea-colour, which the shipwrecked person carried on his back, expressing his losses, thereby to excite the charity of the spectators.

The bodies of the rich, before they were burnt, were embalmed with spices; or rather spices were put into the urn with the relics of the ashes. Our author here names cinnamum and cassia, which cassia was sophisticated with cherry-gum, and probably enough by the Jews, who adulterate all things which they sell. But whether the ancients were acquainted with the spices of the Molucca Islands, Ceylon, and other parts of the Indies, or whether their pepper and cinnamon, etc., were the same with ours, is another question. As for nutmegs and mace, it is plain that the Latin names for them are modern.

The Cæsar here mentioned is Caius Caligula, who affected to triumph over the Germans, whom he never conquered, as he did over the Britons; and accordingly sent letters, wrapt about with laurels, to the senate and the Empress Cæsonia, whom I here call queen; though I know that name was not used amongst the Romans; but the word empress would not stand in that verse, for which reason I adjourned it to another. The dust, which was to be swept away from the altars, was either the ashes which were left there after the last sacrifice for victory, or might perhaps mean the dust or ashes which were left on the altars since some former defeat of the Romans by the Germans; after which overthrow, the altars had been neglected.

Cæsonia, wife to Caius Caligula, who afterwards, in the reign of Claudius, was proposed, but ineffectually, to be married to him, after he had executed Messalina for adultery.

He means only such as were to pass for Germans in the triumph, large-bodied men, as they are still, whom the empress clothed new with coarse garments, for the greater ostentation of the victory.

A hundred pair of gladiators were beyond the purse of a private man to give; therefore this is only a threatening to his heir, that he could do what he pleased with his estate.

Why shouldst thou, who art an old fellow, hope to outlive me, and be my heir, who am much younger? He who was first in the course or race, delivered the torch, which he carried, to him who was second.

Who were famous for their lustiness, and being, as we call it, in good liking. They were set on a stall when they were exposed to sale, to show the good habit of their body; and made to play tricks before the buyers, to show their activity and strength.

Chrysippus, the Stoic, invented a kind of argument, consisting of more than three propositions, which is called sorites, or a heap. But as Chrysippus could never bring his propositions to a certain stint, so neither can a covetous man bring his craving desires to any certain measure of riches, beyond which he could not wish for any more.