 | Electra of Sophocles |  |
To my learned Friend on his apt choice and seasonable translation of ELECTRA in SOPHOCLES.
The
Calender that's stampt for fourty nine
Suits not the Year more, then thy Book the time:
Which comes forth in such day, that it before
Had been clean Verse, and English, but no more.
Now 'tis Designe, and Plot, and may be said
Nor to bring onely forreign Wit, but Aid:
It speaks out Land, as well as Tongue, and cares
Not onely for our Words, but our Affayrs.
You make him to invade the State, and seek,
Not to translate, but to transport the Greek;
As if you had Commission to lie
Agent in forreign tongues, and Poesie:
And when the King wants troops of valiant Vers,
To beat your drums up through the Languages.
Suits not the Year more, then thy Book the time:
Which comes forth in such day, that it before
Had been clean Verse, and English, but no more.
Now 'tis Designe, and Plot, and may be said
Nor to bring onely forreign Wit, but Aid:
It speaks out Land, as well as Tongue, and cares
Not onely for our Words, but our Affayrs.
You make him to invade the State, and seek,
Not to translate, but to transport the Greek;
As if you had Commission to lie
Agent in forreign tongues, and Poesie:
And when the King wants troops of valiant Vers,
To beat your drums up through the Languages.
And it is Counsel now to fight the times,
Not in pitcht Prose, but Verse, and flying rymes.
'Tis safe too: For the Poet (as Men say)
Can forfeit nothing but some woods of Bay.
An old Lute, broken harp, torn wreath, or all
Such Goods and Chattels mere Poeticall.
Here I might praise the Wisdome of thy Wit,
Who gain'st the Croop of danger too in it:
For 'tis but Sophocles repeated, and
Eccho cannot be guilty or arraign'd.
Thus by slight of translation you make
Him libell 'em, who is ten ages back
Out of their reach: and lay your ambush so,
They see not who 'tis hurts e'm. He or You.
Not in pitcht Prose, but Verse, and flying rymes.
'Tis safe too: For the Poet (as Men say)
Can forfeit nothing but some woods of Bay.
An old Lute, broken harp, torn wreath, or all
Such Goods and Chattels mere Poeticall.
Here I might praise the Wisdome of thy Wit,
Who gain'st the Croop of danger too in it:
For 'tis but Sophocles repeated, and
Eccho cannot be guilty or arraign'd.
Him libell 'em, who is ten ages back
Out of their reach: and lay your ambush so,
They see not who 'tis hurts e'm. He or You.
Yet each page of your book affrights 'em more,
Then the loud Citie-prentices at doore.
They tremble at their own red actions past,
(For 'tis their Chronicle, but writ in hast.)
And then to see the Punishment they shake,
Reading their Shambles, and themselves in stakes.
When Egist groans, they start, as if the steel
Reacht at their souls, and when He falls, They reel.
Then the loud Citie-prentices at doore.
They tremble at their own red actions past,
(For 'tis their Chronicle, but writ in hast.)
And then to see the Punishment they shake,
Reading their Shambles, and themselves in stakes.
When Egist groans, they start, as if the steel
Reacht at their souls, and when He falls, They reel.
Thus it sows spears and Agues in some breasts,
But fills us with the joy of Wine and Feasts,
And Hopes to see it dub'd by Victorie,
And bid, Rise up a perfect Prophecie.
But fills us with the joy of Wine and Feasts,
And Hopes to see it dub'd by Victorie,
And bid, Rise up a perfect Prophecie.
| Electra of Sophocles | |