JUVENAL'S TENTH SATIRE TRANSLATED.
In all the parts of earth, from farthest West, And the Atlantic Isles, unto the East And famous Ganges, few there be that know What's truly good, and what is good, in show, Without mistake: for what is't we desire, Or fear discreetly? to whate'er aspire, So throughly bless'd, but ever as we speed, Repentance seals the very act, and deed? The easy gods, mov'd by no other fate Than our own pray'rs, whole kingdoms ruinate, And undo families: thus strife, and war Are the sword's prize, and a litigious bar The gown's prime wish. Vain confidence to share In empty honours and a bloody care To be the first in mischief, makes him die Fool'd 'twixt ambition and credulity. An oily tongue with fatal, cunning sense, And that sad virtue ever, eloquence, Are th' other's ruin, but the common curse; And each day's ill waits on the rich man's purse; He, whose large acres and imprison'd gold So far exceeds his father's store of old, As British whales the dolphins do surpass. In sadder times therefore, and when the laws Of Nero's fiat reign'd, an armed band Seiz'd on Longinus, and the spacious land Of wealthy Seneca, besieg'd the gates Of Lateranus, and his fair estate Divided as a spoil: in such sad feasts Soldiers--though not invited--are the guests. Though thou small pieces of the blessed mine Hast lodg'd about thee, travelling in the shine Of a pale moon, if but a reed doth shake, Mov'd by the wind, the shadow makes thee quake. Wealth hath its cares, and want has this relief, It neither fears the soldier nor the thief; Thy first choice vows, and to the gods best known, Are for thy stores' increase, that in all town Thy stock be greatest, but no poison lies I' th' poor man's dish; he tastes of no such spice. Be that thy care, when, with a kingly gust, Thou suck'st whole bowls clad in the gilded dust Of some rich mineral, whilst the false wine Sparkles aloft, and makes the draught divine. Blam'st thou the sages, then? because the one Would still be laughing, when he would be gone From his own door; the other cried to see His times addicted to such vanity? Smiles are an easy purchase, but to weep Is a hard act; for tears are fetch'd more deep. Democritus his nimble lungs would tire With constant laughter, and yet keep entire His stock of mirth, for ev'ry object was Addition to his store; though then--alas!-- Sedans, and litters, and our Senate gowns, With robes of honour, fasces, and the frowns Of unbrib'd tribunes were not seen; but had He liv'd to see our Roman praetor clad In Jove's own mantle, seated on his high Embroider'd chariot 'midst the dust and cry Of the large theatre, loaden with a crown, Which scarce he could support--for it would down, But that his servant props it--and close by His page, a witness to his vanity: To these his sceptre and his eagle add, His trumpets, officers, and servants clad In white and purple; with the rest that day, He hir'd to triumph, for his bread, and pay; Had he these studied, sumptuous follies seen, 'Tis thought his wanton and effusive spleen Had kill'd the Abderite, though in that age --When pride and greatness had not swell'd the stage So high as ours--his harmless and just mirth From ev'ry object had a sudden birth. Nor was't alone their avarice or pride, Their triumphs or their cares he did deride; Their vain contentions or ridiculous fears, But even their very poverty and tears. He would at Fortune's threats as freely smile As others mourn; nor was it to beguile His crafty passions; but this habit he By nature had, and grave philosophy. He knew their idle and superfluous vows, And sacrifice, which such wrong zeal bestows, Were mere incendiaries; and that the gods, Not pleas'd therewith, would ever be at odds. Yet to no other air, nor better place Ow'd he his birth, than the cold, homely Thrace; Which shows a man may be both wise and good, Without the brags of fortune, or his blood. But envy ruins all: what mighty names Of fortune, spirit, action, blood, and fame, Hath this destroy'd? yea, for no other cause Than being such; their honour, worth and place, Was crime enough; their statues, arms and crowns Their ornaments of triumph, chariots, gowns, And what the herald, with a learned care, Had long preserv'd, this madness will not spare. So once Sejanus' statue Rome allow'd Her demi-god, and ev'ry Roman bow'd To pay his safety's vows; but when that face Had lost Tiberius once, its former grace Was soon eclips'd; no diff'rence made--alas!-- Betwixt his statue then, and common brass, They melt alike, and in the workman's hand For equal, servile use, like others stand. Go, now fetch home fresh bays, and pay new vows To thy dumb Capitol gods! thy life, thy house, And state are now secur'd: Sejanus lies I' th' lictors' hands. Ye gods! what hearts and eyes Can one day's fortune change? the solemn cry Of all the world is, "Let Sejanus die!" They never lov'd the man, they swear; they know Nothing of all the matter, when, or how, By what accuser, for what cause, or why, By whose command or sentence he must die. But what needs this? the least pretence will hit, When princes fear, or hate a favourite. A large epistle stuff'd with idle fear, Vain dreams, and jealousies, directed here From Caprea does it; and thus ever die Subjects, when once they grow prodigious high. 'Tis well, I seek no more; but tell me how This took his friends? no private murmurs now? No tears? no solemn mourner seen? must all His glory perish in one funeral? O still true Romans! State-wit bids them praise The moon by night, but court the warmer rays O' th' sun by day; they follow fortune still, And hate or love discreetly, as their will And the time leads them. This tumultuous fate Puts all their painted favours out of date. And yet this people that now spurn, and tread This mighty favourite's once honour'd head, Had but the Tuscan goddess, or his stars Destin'd him for an empire, or had wars, Treason, or policy, or some higher pow'r Oppress'd secure Tiberius; that same hour That he receiv'd the sad Gemonian doom, Had crown'd him emp'ror of the world and Rome But Rome is now grown wise, and since that she Her suffrages, and ancient liberty Lost in a monarch's name, she takes no care For favourite or prince; nor will she share Their fickle glories, though in Cato's days She rul'd whole States and armies with her voice. Of all the honours now within her walls, She only dotes on plays and festivals. Nor is it strange; for when these meteors fall, They draw an ample ruin with them: all Share in the storm; each beam sets with the sun, And equal hazard friends and flatt'rers run. This makes, that circled with distractive fear The lifeless, pale Sejanus' limbs they tear, And lest the action might a witness need, They bring their servants to confirm the deed; Nor is it done for any other end, Than to avoid the title of his friend. So falls ambitious man, and such are still All floating States built on the people's will: Hearken all you! whom this bewitching lust Of an hour's glory, and a little dust Swells to such dear repentance! you that can Measure whole kingdoms with a thought or span! Would you be as Sejanus? would you have, So you might sway as he did, such a grave? Would you be rich as he? command, dispose, All acts and offices? all friends and foes? Be generals of armies and colleague Unto an emperor? break or make a league? No doubt you would; for both the good and bad An equal itch of honour ever had. But O! what state can be so great or good, As to be bought with so much shame and blood? Alas! Sejanus will too late confess 'Twas only pride and greatness made him less: For he that moveth with the lofty wind Of Fortune, and Ambition, unconfin'd In act or thought, doth but increase his height, That he may loose it with more force and weight; Scorning a base, low ruin, as if he Would of misfortune make a prodigy. Tell, mighty Pompey, Crassus, and O thou That mad'st Rome kneel to thy victorious brow, What but the weight of honours, and large fame After your worthy acts, and height of name, Destroy'd you in the end? The envious Fates, Easy to further your aspiring States, Us'd them to quell you too; pride, and excess. In ev'ry act did make you thrive the less. Few kings are guilty of grey hairs, or die Without a stab, a draught, or treachery. And yet to see him, that but yesterday Saw letters first, how he will scrape, and pray; And all her feast-time tire Minerva's ears For fame, for eloquence, and store of years To thrive and live in; and then lest he dotes, His boy assists him with his box and notes. Fool that thou art! not to discern the ill These vows include; what, did Rome's consul kill Her Cicero? what, him whose very dust Greece celebrates as yet; whose cause, though just, Scarce banishment could end; nor poison save His free-born person from a foreign grave? All this from eloquence! both head and hand The tongue doth forfeit; petty wits may stand Secure from danger, but the nobler vein With loss of blood the bar doth often stain.
} Carmen O fortunatam natam me Consule Romam. } Ciceronianum }
Had all been thus, thou might'st have scorn'd the sword Of fierce Antonius; here is not one word Doth pinch; I like such stuff, 'tis safer far Than thy Philippics, or Pharsalia's war. What sadder end than his, whom Athens saw At once her patriot, oracle, and law? Unhappy then is he, and curs'd in stars Whom his poor father, blind with soot and scars, Sends from the anvil's harmless chine, to wear The factious gown, and tire his client's ear And purse with endless noise. Trophies of war, Old rusty armour, with an honour'd scar, And wheels of captiv'd chariots, with a piece Of some torn British galley, and to these The ensign too, and last of all the train The pensive pris'ner loaden with his chain, Are thought true Roman honours; these the Greek And rude barbarians equally do seek. Thus air, and empty fame, are held a prize Beyond fair virtue; for all virtue dies Without reward; and yet by this fierce lust Of fame, and titles to outlive our dust, And monuments--though all these things must die And perish like ourselves--whole kingdoms lie Ruin'd and spoil'd: put Hannibal i' th' scale, What weight affords the mighty general? This is the man, whom Afric's spacious land Bounded by th' Indian Sea, and Nile's hot sand Could not contain--Ye gods! that give to men Such boundless appetites, why state you them So short a time? either the one deny, Or give their acts and them eternity. All Aethiopia, to the utmost bound Of Titan's course,--than which no land is found Less distant from the sun--with him that ploughs That fertile soil where fam'd[52] Iberus flows, Are not enough to conquer; pass'd now o'er The Pyrrhene hills, the Alps with all its store Of ice, and rocks clad in eternal snow, --As if that Nature meant to give the blow-- Denies him passage; straight on ev'ry side He wounds the hill, and by strong hand divides The monstrous pile; nought can ambition stay. The world and Nature yield to give him way. And now pass'd o'er the Alps, that mighty bar 'Twixt France and Rome, fear of the future war Strikes Italy; success and hope doth fire His lofty spirits with a fresh desire. All is undone as yet--saith he--unless Our Paenish forces we advance, and press Upon Rome's self; break down her gates and wall, And plant our colours in Suburra's vale. O the rare sight! if this great soldier we Arm'd on his Getick elephant might see! But what's the event? O glory, how the itch Of thy short wonders doth mankind bewitch! He that but now all Italy and Spain Had conquer'd o'er, is beaten out again; And in the heart of Afric, and the sight Of his own Carthage, forc'd to open flight. Banish'd from thence, a fugitive he posts To Syria first, then to Bithynia's coasts, Both places by his sword secur'd, though he In this distress must not acknowledg'd be; Where once a general he triumphed, now To show what Fortune can, he begs as low. And thus that soul which through all nations hurl'd Conquest and war, and did amaze the world, Of all those glories robb'd, at his last breath, Fortune would not vouchsafe a soldier's death. For all that blood the field of Cannae boasts, And sad Apulia fill'd with Roman ghosts, No other end--freed from the pile and sword-- Than a poor ring would Fortune him afford. Go now, ambitious man! new plots design, March o'er the snowy Alps and Apennine; That, after all, at best thou may'st but be A pleasing story to posterity! The Macedon one world could not contain, We hear him of the narrow earth complain, And sweat for room, as if Seriphus Isle Or Gyara had held him in exile; But Babylon this madness can allay, And give the great man but his length of clay. The highest thoughts and actions under heaven Death only with the lowest dust lays even. It is believed--if what Greece writes be true-- That Xerxes with his Persian fleet did hew Their ways through mountains, that their sails full blown Like clouds hung over Athos and did drown The spacious continent, and by plain force Betwixt the mount and it, made a divorce; That seas exhausted were, and made firm land, And Sestos joined unto Abydos strand; That on their march his Medes but passing by Drank thee, Scamander, and Melenus dry; With whatsoe'er incredible design Sostratus sings, inspir'd with pregnant wine. But what's the end? He that the other day Divided Hellespont, and forc'd his way Through all her angry billows, that assign'd New punishments unto the waves, and wind, No sooner saw the Salaminian seas But he was driven out by Themistocles, And of that fleet--supposed to be so great, That all mankind shar'd in the sad defeat-- Not one sail sav'd, in a poor fisher's boat, Chas'd o'er the working surge, was glad to float, Cutting his desp'rate course through the tir'd flood, And fought again with carcases, and blood. O foolish mad Ambition! these are still The famous dangers that attend thy will. Give store of days, good Jove, give length of years, Are the next vows; these with religious fears And constancy we pay; but what's so bad As a long, sinful age? what cross more sad Than misery of years? how great an ill Is that which doth but nurse more sorrow still? It blacks the face, corrupt and dulls the blood, Benights the quickest eye, distastes the food, And such deep furrows cuts i' th' checker'd skin As in th' old oaks of Tabraca are seen. Youth varies in most things; strength, beauty, wit, Are several graces; but where age doth hit It makes no difference; the same weak voice, And trembling ague in each member lies: A general hateful baldness, with a curs'd Perpetual pettishness; and, which is worst, A foul, strong flux of humours, and more pain To feed, than if he were to nurse again; So tedious to himself, his wife, and friends, That his own sons, and servants, wish his end. His taste and feeling dies; and of that fire The am'rous lover burns in, no desire: Or if there were, what pleasure could it be, Where lust doth reign without ability? Nor is this all: what matters it, where he Sits in the spacious stage? who can nor see, Nor hear what's acted, whom the stiller voice Of spirited, wanton airs, or the loud noise Of trumpets cannot pierce; whom thunder can But scarce inform who enters, or what man He personates, what 'tis they act, or say? How many scenes are done? what time of day? Besides that little blood his carcase holds Hath lost[53] its native warmth, and fraught with colds Catarrhs, and rheums, to thick black jelly turns, And never but in fits and fevers burns. Such vast infirmities, so huge a stock Of sickness and diseases to him flock, That Hyppia ne'er so many lovers knew, Nor wanton Maura; physic never slew So many patients, nor rich lawyers spoil More wards and widows; it were lesser toil To number out what manors and domains Licinius' razor purchas'd: one complains Of weakness in the back, another pants For lack of breath, the third his eyesight wants; Nay, some so feeble are, and full of pain, That infant-like they must be fed again. These faint too at their meals; their wine they spill, And like young birds, that wait the mother's bill, They gape for meat; but sadder far than this Their senseless ignorance and dotage is; For neither they, their friends, nor servants know, Nay, those themselves begot, and bred up too, No longer now they'll own; for madly they Proscribe them all, and what, on the last day, The misers cannot carry to the grave For their past sins, their prostitutes must have. But grant age lack'd these plagues: yet must they see As great, as many: frail mortality, In such a length of years, hath many falls, And deads a life with frequent funerals. The nimblest hour in all the span can steal A friend, or brother from's; there's no repeal In death, or time; this day a wife we mourn, To-morrow's tears a son; and the next urn A sister fills. Long-livers have assign'd These curses still, that with a restless mind, An age of fresh renewing cares they buy, And in a tide of tears grow old and die. Nestor,--if we great Homer may believe-- In his full strength three hundred years did live: Happy--thou'lt say--that for so long a time Enjoy'd free nature, with the grape and wine Of many autumns; but, I prithee thee, hear What Nestor says himself, when he his dear Antilochus had lost; how he complains Of life's too large extent, and copious pains? Of all he meets, he asks what is the cause He liv'd thus long; for what breach of their laws The gods thus punish'd him? what sin had he Done worthy of a long life's misery. Thus Peleus his Achilles mourned, and he Thus wept that his Ulysses lost at sea. Had Priam died before Phereclus' fleet Was built, or Paris stole the fatal Greek, Troy had yet stood, and he perhaps had gone In peace unto the lower shades; his son Sav'd with his plenteous offspring, and the rest In solemn pomp bearing his fun'ral chest. But long life hinder'd this: unhappy he, Kept for a public ruin, liv'd to see All Asia lost, and ere he could aspire, In his own house saw both the sword and fire; All white with age and cares, his feeble arm Had now forgot the war; but this alarm Gathers his dying spirits; and as we An aged ox worn out with labour see By his ungrateful master, after all His years of toil, a thankless victim fall: So he by Jove's own altar; which shows we Are nowhere safe from heaven, and destiny: Yet died a man; but his surviving queen, Freed from the Greekish sword, was barking seen. I haste to Rome, and Pontus' king let pass, With Lydian Cr[oe]sus, whom in vain--alas!-- Just Solon's grave advice bad to attend, That happiness came not before the end. What man more bless'd in any age to come Or past, could Nature show the world, or Rome, Than Marius was? if amidst the pomp of war, And triumphs fetch'd with Roman blood from far, His soul had fled; exile and fetters then He ne'er had seen, nor known Minturna's fen; Nor had it, after Carthage got, been said A Roman general had begg'd his bread. Thus Pompey th' envious gods, and Rome's ill stars --Freed from Campania's fevers, and the wars-- Doom'd to Achilles' sword: our public vows Made Caesar guiltless; but sent him to lose His head at Nile: this curse Cethegus miss'd: This Lentulus, and this made him resist That mangled by no lictor's axe, fell dead Entirely Catiline, and sav'd his head. The anxious matrons, with their foolish zeal, Are the last votaries, and their appeal Is all for beauty; with soft speech, and slow, They pray for sons, but with a louder vow Commend a female feature: all that can Make woman pleasing now they shift, and scan And when[54] reprov'd, they say, Latona's pair The mother never thinks can be too fair. But sad Lucretia warns to wish no face Like hers: Virginia would bequeath her grace To crook-back Rutila in exchange; for still The fairest children do their parents fill With greatest cares; so seldom chastity Is found with beauty; though some few there be That with a strict, religious care contend Th' old, modest, Sabine customs to defend: Besides, wise Nature to some faces grants An easy blush, and where she freely plants A less instruction serves: but both these join'd, At Rome would both be forc'd or else purloin'd. So steel'd a forehead Vice hath, that dares win, And bribe the father to the children's sin; But whom have gifts defiled not? what good face Did ever want these tempters? pleasing grace Betrays itself; what time did Nero mind A coarse, maim'd shape? what blemish'd youth confin'd His goatish pathic? whence then flow these joys Of a fair issue? whom these sad annoys Wait, and grow up with; whom perhaps thou'lt see Public adulterers, and must be Subject to all the curses, plagues, and awe Of jealous madmen, and the Julian law; Nor canst thou hope they'll find a milder star, Or more escapes than did the god of war. But worse than all, a jealous brain confines His fury to no law; what rage assigns Is present justice: thus the rash sword spills This lecher's blood; the scourge another kills. But thy spruce boy must touch no other face Than a patrician? is of any race So they be rich; Servilia is as good, With wealth, as she that boasts Iulus' blood. To please a servant all is cheap; what thing In all their stock to the last suit, and king, But lust exacts? the poorest whore in this As generous as the patrician is. But thou wilt say what hurt's a beauteous skin With a chaste soul? Ask Theseus' son, and him That Stenob[oe]a murder'd; for both these Can tell how fatal 'twas in them to please. A woman's spleen then carries most of fate, When shame and sorrow aggravate her hate. Resolve me now, had Silius been thy son, In such a hazard what should he have done? Of all Rome's youth, this was the only best, In whom alone beauty and worth did rest. This Messalina saw, and needs he must Be ruin'd by the emp'ror, or her lust. All in the face of Rome, and the world's eye Though Caesar's wife, a public bigamy She dares attempt; and that the act might bear More prodigy, the notaries appear, And augurs to't; and to complete the sin In solemn form, a dowry is brought in. All this--thou'lt say--in private might have pass'd But she'll not have it so; what course at last? What should he do? If Messaline be cross'd, Without redress thy Silius will be lost; If not, some two days' length is all he can Keep from the grave; just so much as will span This news to Hostia, to whose fate he owes That Claudius last his own dishonour knows. But he obeys, and for a few hours' lust Forfeits that glory should outlive his dust; Nor was it much a fault; for whether he Obey'd or not, 'twas equal destiny. So fatal beauty is, and full of waste. That neither wanton can be safe, nor chaste. What then should man pray for? what is't that he Can beg of Heaven, without impiety? Take my advice: first to the gods commit All cares; for they things competent and fit For us foresee; besides, man is more dear To them than to himself; we blindly here, Led by the world and lust, in vain assay To get us portions, wives and sons; but they Already know all that we can intend, And of our children's children see the end. Yet that thou may'st have something to commend With thanks unto the gods for what they send; Pray for a wise and knowing soul; a sad, Discreet, true valour, that will scorn to add A needless horror to thy death; that knows 'Tis but a debt which man to nature owes; That starts not at misfortunes, that can sway And keep all passions under lock and key; That covets nothing, wrongs none, and prefers An honest want, before rich injurers. All this thou hast within thyself, and may Be made thy own, if thou wilt take the way; What boots the world's wild, loose applause? what [can] Frail, perilous honours add unto a man? What length of years, wealth, or a rich fair wife? Virtue alone can make a happy life. To a wise man nought comes amiss: but we Fortune adore, and make our deity.
[52] The original has framed.
[53] The original has low.
[54] The original has why