Who since to sing the Pythian rites is heard, Did learn them first, and once a master feared. But now it is enough to say, I make To say, I'm ignorant. Just as a crier or no. But you, my Piso, carefully beware (Whether yo'are given to, or giver are) You do not bring to judge your verses, one, With joy of what is given him, over-gone: For he'll cry Good, brave, better, excellent! Look pale, distil a shower (was never meant) Out at his friendly eyes, leap, beat the groun', As those that hired to weep at funerals swoun, Cry, and do more than the true mourners: so The scoffer the true praiser doth out-go. Tibicen, didicit, priùs, extimuitque magis trum. Nunc satis est dixisse, Ego mira poëmata pango: Occupet extremum scabies, mihi turpe relinqui est, Et quod non didici, sanè nescire fateri. 'ft præco ad merces turbam qui cogit emendas, Adsentatores jubet ad lucrum ire poëta Dives agris, dives positis in fœnore nummis. Si verò est, unctum qui rectè ponere possit, Et spondere levi pro paupere, et eripere atris Litibus implicitum; mirabor, si sciet internoscere mendacem verumque beatus ami cum. Tu seu donaris, seu quid donare voles cui, Nolito ad versus tibi factos ducere plenum Lætitiæ clamabit enim, Pulchrè, benè, rectè. Pallescit super his: etiam stillabit amicis Ex oculis rorem, saliet, tundet pede terram. Ut qui conducti plorant in funere, dicunt, If to Quintilius you recited aught, He'd say, Mend this, good friend, and this. "Tis naught. If you denied you had no better strain, And twice or thrice had 'ssayed it, still in vain : He'd bid blot all, and to the anvil bring These ill-torned verses to new hammering. Then if your fault you rather had defend Than change; no word or work more would he spend In vain, but you and yours you should love still Alone, without a rival, by his will. A wise and honest man will cry out shame On artless verse; the hard ones he will blame, Blot out the careless with his turned pen; Cut off superfluous ornaments, and when They're dark, bid clear this: all that's doubtful wrote Reprove, and what is to be changed note; Become an Aristarchus. And not say Why should I grieve my friend this trifling way? These trifles into serious mischiefs lead The man once mocked, and suffered wrong to tread. Wise sober folk a frantic poet fear; And shun to touch him, as a man that were Infected with the leprosy, or had I'll tell you but the death and the disease Nor did he do this once; for if you can The yellow jaundice, or were furious Recall him yet, he'd be no more a man, mad, According to the moon. But then the boys They vex, and follow him with shouts and noise; The while he belcheth lofty verses out, There's none will take the care to help him then ; For if one should, and with a rope make haste To let it down, who knows if he did cast Himself there purposely or no, and would Not thence be saved, although indeed he could? Arguet ambiguè dictum, mutanda notabit : Fiet Aristarchus, nec dicet, Cur ego ami cum Offendam in nugis? hæ nugæ seria ducent In mala, semel derisum, exceptumque sinistré. Ut mala quem scabies, aut morbus regius urget, Aut fanaticus error, et iracunda Diana, Vesanum tetigisse timent, fugiuntque poetam, Qui sapiunt: agitant pueri, incautique sequuntur. Hic dum sublimes versus ructatur, et errat Clamet Iò cives ! non sit qui tollere curet. Si quis curet opem ferre, et demittere funem, Qut scis, an prudens huc se dejecerit, etque Servari noiit? dican, Siculique poetæ Or love of this so famous death lay by. His cause of making verses none knows why, Whether he pissed upon his father's grave, Or the sad thunder-stroken thing he have Defiléd, touched; but certain he was mad, And as a bear, if he the strength but had To force the grates that hold him in, would fright All: so this grievous writer puts to flight Learned and unlearned, holding whom once he takes, And there an end of him reciting makes; Not letting go his hold, where he draws food, Till he drop off, a horse-leech, full of blood. Narrabo interitum. Deus immortalis ha- Insiluit. Sit jus, liceatque perire poëtis. Fiet homo: et ponet famosæ mortis amo rem. Nec satis apparet, cur versus factitet: utrum Minxerit in patrios cineres, an triste bidental Moverit incestus: certè furit, ac, velut ursus, Objectos caveæ valuit si frangere clathros, Indoctum doctumque fugat recitator acerbus. Quem verò arripuit, tenet occiditque legendo Non missura cutem nisi plena cuoris birtid THE PRAISES OF A COUNTRY LIFE. Happy is he, that from all business clear, And waiting-chambers of great lords. The lowing herds there grazing are: Or the prest honey in pure pots doth keep Of earth, and shears the tender sheep: Or when that autumn through the fields lifts round His head, with mellow apples crowned, How plucking pears, his own hand grafted had, And purple-matching grapes, he's glad! With which, Priapus, he may thank thy hands, And, Sylvan, thine, that kept'st his lands! Then now beneath some ancient oak he may Now in the rooted grass him lay, Whilst from the higher banks do slide the floods; The soft birds quarrel in the woods, The fountains murmur as the streams do creep, And all invite to easy sleep. Then when the thund'ring Jove, his snow and showers Are gathering by the wintry hours: Or hence, or thence, he drives with many a hound Wild boars into his toils pitched round: Or strains on his small fork his subtle nets For th' eating thrush, or pit-falls sets: And snares the fearful hare, and new-come crane, And 'counts them sweet rewards so ta'en. Who amongst these delights, would not forget Love's cares so evil and so great? 1 Beatus ille, &c.] This ode seems to have been a peculiar favourite with the poets of our author's age. It is translated by Sir John Beaumont, Randolph, and others; but by none of them with much success. Denham had not yet propagated his manly and judicious sentiments on translation, and the grace and freedom of poetry were sacrificed by almost general consent IIORAT. OD. LIB. V. OD. II. VITE RUSTICE LAUDES. Solutus omni fœnore: Ergo aut adultâ vitium propagine Aut in reducta valle mugientium Prospectat errantes greges: Aut pressa puris mella condit amphoris, Aut tondet infirmas oves : Vel cum decorum mitibus pomis caput Ut gaudet insitiva decerpens pyra, Qua muneretur te, Priape, et te, pater Libet jacere modò sub antiqua ilice; Fontesque lymphis obstrepunt manantibus, At cum tonentis annus hibernus Jovis Aut trudit acres hinc, et hinc multâ cane Jucunda captat præmia : Quis non malarum, quas amor curas habet, Hæc inter obliviscitur? to a strict and rigid fidelity. As these versions have no date, it is not possible to say whether they were the exercises of the schoolboy or the productions of riper age. None of them were committed to the press by the poet. and admired it."-F. C.] [Jonson read this translation to Drummond, But if, to boot with these, a chaste wife Quòd si pudica mulier in partem juvet meet For household aid, and children sweet; Such as the Sabines, or a sun-burnt blowse, Some lusty quick Apulian's spouse, To deck the hallowed hearth with old wood fired Against the husband comes home tired; That penning he glad flock in hurdles by, Their swelling udders doth draw dry: And from the sweet tub wine of this year takes, And unbought viands ready makes. Not Lucrine oysters I could then more prize, Nor turbot, nor bright golden-eyes: If with bright floods, the winter troubled much, Into our seas send any such : The Ionian godwit, nor the ginny hen From fattest branches of the tree: Or the herb sorrel, that loves meadows still, Or mallows loosing bodies ill : Or at the feast of bounds, the lamb then slain, Or kid forced from the wolf again, Among these cates how glad the sight doth come Of the fed flocks approaching home : To view the weary oxen draw, with bare And fainting necks, the turned share! The wealthy household swarm of bondmen met, And 'bout the steaming chimney set ! These thoughts when usurer Alphius, now about To turn mere farmer, had spoke out; 'Gainst the ides, his moneys he gets in with pain. At the calends puts all out again. ODE I. BOOK IV. TO VENUS. Venus, again thou mov'st a war Long intermitted, pray thee, pray thee spare: I am not such, as in the reign Of the good Cynara I was: refrain Sour mother of sweet Loves, forbear To bend a man now at his fiftieth year Too stubborn for commands so slack: Go where youths' soft entreaties call thee back. VOL. III. HORACE, ODE I. LIB. IV. Intermissa Venus diu, Rursus bella moves: parce precor, precor: Non sum qualis eram bonæ Sub regno Cynara desine dulcium Mater sæva Cupidinum, Circa lustra decem flectere mollibus Jam durum imperiis: abi Quò blandæ juvenum te revocant preces. cc More timely hie thee to the house, mus: There jest and feast, make him thine host, If a fit liver thou dost seek to toast; For he's both noble, lovely, young, Tempestivius in domo Pauli purpureis ales oloribus, Comessabere Maximi, Si torrere jecur quæris idoneum. Namque et nobilis, et decens, Et pro solicitis non tacitus reis. And for the troubled client files his Et centum puer artium, Shall verse be set to harp and lute, Late signa feret militiæ tuæ. Et quandoque potentior Largi muneribus riserit æmuli, Albanos prope te lacus Ponet marmoream sub trabe cyprea. Illic plurima naribus Duces tura, lyræque, et Berecynthia Delectabere tibiâ Mistis carminibus non sine fistula. And Phrygian hau'boy, not without the Illic bis pueri die, flute. There twice a day in sacred lays, The youths and tender maids shall sing thy praise: And in the Salian manner meet Thrice 'bout thy altar with their ivory feet. Me now, nor wench, nor wanton boy, Delights, nor credulous hope of mutual joy; Nor care I now healths to propound, Or with fresh flowers to girt my temples round. But why, oh why, my Ligurine, Flow my thin tears down these pale cheeks of mine? Or why my well-graced words among With an uncomely silence fails my tongue? Hard-hearted, I dream every night I hold thee fast! but fled hence, with the light, Whether in Mars his field thou be, Or Tyber's winding streams, I follow thee. Numen cum teneris virginibus tuum Laudantes, pede candido In morem Salium ter quatient humum. Me nec fœmina nec puer Jam, nec spes animi credula mutui, Nec certare juvat mero : Nec vincire novis tempora floribus. Sed cur, heu! Ligurine, cur Manat rara meas lachryma per genas? Cur facunda parum decoro Inter verba cadit lingua silentio ? Nocturnis te ego somniis Jam captum teneo, jam volucrem sequor: Te per gramina Martii Campi, te per aquas, dure, volubiles. |