_To his Mistress, whose Husband is invited to a Feast with them. The
Poet instructs her how to behave herself in his company._
Your husband will be with us at the treat;
May that be the last supper he shall eat!
And am poor I a guest invited there,
Only to see, while he may touch the fair?
To see you kiss and hug your nauseous lord,
While his lewd hand descends below the board?
Now wonder not that Hippodamia's charms,
At such a sight, the Centaurs urged to arms;
That in a rage they threw their cups aside,
Assailed the bridegroom, and would force the bride.
I am not half a horse, (I would I were!)
Yet hardly can from you my hands forbear.
Take then my counsel; which, observed, may be
Of some importance both to you and me.
Be sure to come before your man be there;
There's nothing can be done; but come, howe'er.
Sit next him, (that belongs to decency,)
But tread upon my foot in passing by;
Read in my looks what silently they speak,
And slily, with your eyes, your answer make.
My lifted eye-brow shall declare my pain;
My right-hand to his fellow shall complain,
And on the back a letter shall design,
Besides a note that shall be writ in wine.
Whene'er you think upon our last embrace,
With your fore-finger gently touch your face;
If any word of mine offend my dear,
Pull, with your hand, the velvet of your ear;
If you are pleased with what I do or say,
Handle your rings, or with your fingers play;
As suppliants use at altars, hold the board,
Whene'er you wish the devil may take your lord.
When he fills for you, never touch the cup,
But bid the officious cuckold drink it up.
The waiter on those services employ;
Drink you, and I will snatch it from the boy,
Watching the part where your sweet mouth hath been,
And thence with eager lips will suck it in.
If he, with clownish manners, thinks it fit
To taste, and offer you the nasty bit,
Reject his greasy kindness, and restore
The unsavoury morsel he had chewed before.
Nor let his arms embrace your neck, nor rest
Your tender cheek upon his hairy breast;
Let not his hand within your bosom stray,
And rudely with your pretty bubbies play;
But, above all, let him no kiss receive!
That's an offence I never can forgive.
Do not, O do not that sweet mouth resign,
Lest I rise up in arms, and cry, 'tis mine.
I shall thrust in betwixt, and, void of fear,
The manifest adulterer will appear.
These things are plain to sight; but more I doubt
What you conceal beneath your petticoat.
Take not his leg between your tender thighs,
Nor, with your hand, provoke my foe to rise.
How many love-inventions I deplore,
Which I myself have practised all before!
How oft have I been forced the robe to lift
In company; to make a homely shift
For a bare bout, ill huddled o'er in haste,
While o'er my side the fair her mantle cast!
You to your husband shall not be so kind;
But, lest you should, your mantle leave behind.
Encourage him to tope; but kiss him not,
Nor mix one drop of water in his pot.
If he be fuddled well, and snores apace,
Then we may take advice from time and place.
When all depart, when compliments are loud,
Be sure to mix among the thickest crowd;
There I will be, and there we cannot miss,
Perhaps to grubble, or at least to kiss.
Alas! what length of labour I employ,
Just to secure a short and transient joy!
For night must part us; and when night is come,
Tucked underneath his arm he leads you home.
He locks you in; I follow to the door,
His fortune envy, and my own deplore.
He kisses you, he more than kisses too;
The outrageous cuckold thinks it all his due.
But add not to his joy by your consent,
And let it not be given, but only lent.
Return no kiss, nor move in any sort;
Make it a dull and a malignant sport.
Had I my wish, he should no pleasure take,
But slubber o'er your business for my sake;
And whate'er fortune shall this night befal,
Coax me to-morrow, by forswearing all.
PREFACE ON TRANSLATION,
PREFIXED TO DRYDEN's SECOND MISCELLANY,
PUBLISHED IN 1685.
For this last half year I have been troubled with the disease (as I may
call it) of translation. The cold prose fits of it, which are always
the most tedious with me, were spent in the History of the League;[47]
the hot, which succeeded them, in this volume of Verse Miscellanies.
The truth is, I fancied to myself a kind of ease in the change of the
paroxysm; never suspecting but that the humour would have wasted itself
in two or three pastorals of Theocritus, and as many odes of Horace.
But finding, or at least thinking I found, something that was more
pleasing in them than my ordinary productions, I encouraged myself to
renew my old acquaintance with Lucretius and Virgil; and immediately
fixed upon some parts of them, which had most affected me in the
reading. These were my natural impulses for the undertaking. But there
was an accidental motive which was full as forcible, and God forgive
him who was the occasion of it. It was my Lord Roscommon's "Essay on
Translated Verse;"[48] which made me uneasy till I tried whether or no
I was capable of following his rules, and of reducing the speculation
into practice. For, many a fair precept in poetry is, like a seeming
demonstration in the mathematics, very specious in the diagram, but
failing in the mechanic operation. I think I have generally observed
his instructions; I am sure my reason is sufficiently convinced both
of their truth and usefulness; which, in other words, is to confess no
less a vanity, than to pretend that I have, at least in some places,
made examples to his rules. Yet, withal, I must acknowledge, that I
have many times exceeded my commission; for I have both added and
omitted, and even sometimes very boldly made such expositions of my
author's, as no Dutch commentator will forgive me. Perhaps, in such
particular passages, I have thought that I discovered some beauty
yet undiscovered by those pedants, which none but a poet could have
found. Where I have taken away some of their expressions, and cut
them shorter, it may possibly be on this consideration, that what was
beautiful in the Greek or Latin, would not appear so shining in the
English: and where I have enlarged them, I desire the false critics
would not always think, that those thoughts are wholly mine, but that
either they are secretly in the poet, or may be fairly deduced from
him; or at least, if both those considerations should fail, that my own
is of a piece with his, and that if he were living, and an Englishman,
they are such as he would probably have written.
For, after all, a translator is to make his author appear as charming
as possibly he can, provided he maintains his character, and makes him
not unlike himself. Translation is a kind of drawing after the life;
where every one will acknowledge there is a double sort of likeness,
a good one and a bad. It is one thing to draw the outlines true, the
features like, the proportions exact, the colouring itself perhaps
tolerable; and another thing to make all these graceful, by the
posture, the shadowings, and, chiefly, by the spirit which animates
the whole. I cannot, without some indignation, look on an ill copy of
an excellent original; much less can I behold with patience Virgil,
Homer, and some others, whose beauties I have been endeavouring all
my life to imitate, so abused, as I may say, to their faces, by a
botching interpreter. What English readers, unacquainted with Greek
or Latin, will believe me, or any other man, when we commend those
authors, and confess we derive all that is pardonable in us from
their fountains, if they take those to be the same poets, whom our
Oglebies have translated? But I dare assure them, that a good poet
is no more like himself, in a dull translation, than his carcase
would be to his living body. There are many, who understand Greek and
Latin, and yet are ignorant of their mother-tongue. The proprieties
and delicacies of the English are known to few; it is impossible even
for a good wit to understand and practise them, without the help of
a liberal education, long reading, and digesting of those few good
authors we have amongst us, the knowledge of men and manners, the
freedom of habitudes and conversation with the best company of both
sexes; and, in short, without wearing off the rust which he contracted
while he was laying in a stock of learning. Thus difficult it is to
understand the purity of English, and critically to discern not only
good writers from bad, and a proper style from a corrupt, but also to
distinguish that which is pure in a good author, from that which is
vicious and corrupt in him. And for want of all these requisites, or
the greatest part of them, most of our ingenious young men take up some
cried-up English poet for their model, adore him, and imitate him,
as they think, without knowing wherein he is defective, where he is
boyish and trifling, wherein either his thoughts are improper to his
subject, or his expressions unworthy of his thoughts, or the turn of
both is unharmonious. Thus it appears necessary, that a man should be
a nice critic in his mother-tongue, before he attempts to translate
in a foreign language. Neither is it sufficient, that he be able to
judge of words and style; but he must be a master of them too; he
must perfectly understand his author's tongue, and absolutely command
his own. So that, to be a thorough translator, he must be a thorough
poet. Neither is it enough to give his author's sense in good English,
in poetical expressions, and in musical numbers; for, though all
these are exceeding difficult to perform, there yet remains a harder
task; and it is a secret of which few translators have sufficiently
thought. I have already hinted a word or two concerning it; that is,
the maintaining the character of an author, which distinguishes him
from all others, and makes him appear that individual poet whom you
would interpret. For example, not only the thoughts, but the style and
versification, of Virgil and Ovid are very different: Yet I see, even
in our best poets, who have translated some parts of them, that they
have confounded their several talents; and, by endeavouring only at the
sweetness and harmony of numbers, have made them both so much alike,
that, if I did not know the originals, I should never be able to judge
by the copies, which was Virgil, and which was Ovid. It was objected
against a late noble painter,[49] that he drew many graceful pictures,
but few of them were alike. And this happened to him, because he always
studied himself more than those who sat to him. In such translators I
can easily distinguish the hand which performed the work, but I cannot
distinguish their poet from another. Suppose two authors are equally
sweet, yet there is as great distinction to be made in sweetness,
as in that of sugar, and that of honey. I can make the difference
more plain, by giving you (if it be worth knowing) my own method of
proceeding, in my translations out of four several poets in this
volume; Virgil, Theocritus, Lucretius, and Horace. In each of these,
before I undertook them, I considered the genius and distinguishing
character of my author. I looked on Virgil as a succinct, and grave
majestic writer; one who weighed, not only every thought, but every
word and syllable; who was still aiming to crowd his sense into as
narrow a compass as possibly he could; for which reason he is so very
figurative, that he requires (I may almost say) a grammar apart to
construe him. His verse is every where sounding the very thing in your
ears, whose sense it bears; yet the numbers are perpetually varied,
to increase the delight of the reader; so that the same sounds are
never repeated twice together. On the contrary, Ovid and Claudian,
though they write in styles differing from each other, yet have each
of them but one sort of music in their verses. All the versification
and little variety of Claudian is included within the compass of four
or five lines, and then he begins again in the same tenor; perpetually
closing his sense at the end of a verse, and that verse commonly
which they call golden, or two substantives and two adjectives, with
a verb betwixt them to keep the peace. Ovid, with all his sweetness,
has as little variety of numbers and sound as he: he is always, as it
were, upon the hand-gallop, and his verse runs upon carpet-ground.
He avoids, like the other, all synalæphas, or cutting off one vowel
when it comes before another in the following word; so that, minding
only smoothness, he wants both variety and majesty.--But to return to
Virgil: though he is smooth where smoothness is required, yet he is so
far from affecting it, that he seems rather to disdain it; frequently
makes use of synalæphas, and concludes his sense in the middle of
his verse. He is every where above conceits of epigrammatic wit, and
gross hyperboles; he maintains majesty in the midst of plainness; he
shines, but glares not; and is stately without ambition, which is the
vice of Lucan. I drew my definition of poetical wit from my particular
consideration of him: for propriety of thoughts and words are only to
be found in him; and, where they are proper, they will be delightful.
Pleasure follows of necessity, as the effect does the cause; and
therefore is not to be put into the definition. This exact propriety
of Virgil I particularly regarded, as a great part of his character;
but must confess, to my shame, that I have not been able to translate
any part of him so well, as to make him appear wholly like himself:
for, where the original is close, no version can reach it in the same
compass. Hannibal Caro's,[50] in the Italian, is the nearest, the most
poetical, and the most sonorous of any translation of the Æneids; yet,
though he takes the advantage of blank verse, he commonly allows two
lines for one of Virgil, and does not always hit his sense. Tasso tells
us, in his letters, that Sperone Speroni, a great Italian wit, who was
his contemporary, observed of Virgil and Tully, that the Latin orator
endeavoured to imitate the copiousness of Homer, the Greek poet; and
that the Latin poet made it his business to reach the conciseness of
Demosthenes, the Greek orator. Virgil therefore, being so very sparing
of his words, and leaving so much to be imagined by the reader, can
never be translated as he ought, in any modern tongue. To make him
copious, is to alter his character; and to translate him line for line,
is impossible; because the Latin is naturally a more succinct language
than either the Italian, Spanish, French, or even than the English,
which, by reason of its monosyllables, is far the most compendious
of them. Virgil is much the closest of any Roman poet, and the Latin
hexameter has more feet than the English heroick.
Besides all this, an author has the choice of his own thoughts and
words, which a translator has not; he is confined by the sense of the
inventor to those expressions which are the nearest to it: so that
Virgil, studying brevity, and having the command of his own language,
could bring those words into a narrow compass, which a translator
cannot render without circumlocutions. In short, they, who have called
him the torture of grammarians, might also have called him the plague
of translators; for he seems to have studied not to be translated. I
own that, endeavouring to turn his "Nisus and Euryalus" as close as I
was able, I have performed that episode too literally; that, giving
more scope to "Mezentius and Lausus," that version, which has more
of the majesty of Virgil, has less of his conciseness; and all that
I can promise for myself, is only, that I have done both better than
Ogleby, and perhaps as well as Caro; so that, methinks, I come like a
malefactor, to make a speech upon the gallows, and to warn all other
poets, by my sad example, from the sacrilege of translating Virgil.
Yet, by considering him so carefully as I did before my attempt, I have
made some faint resemblance of him; and, had I taken more time, might
possibly have succeeded better; but never so well as to have satisfied
myself.
He who excels all other poets in his own language, were it possible
to do him right, must appear above them in our tongue, which, as my
Lord Roscommon justly observes, approaches nearest to the Roman in its
majesty; nearest indeed, but with a vast interval betwixt them. There
is an inimitable grace in Virgil's words, and in them principally
consists that beauty, which gives so inexpressible a pleasure to
him who best understands their force. This diction of his (I must
once again say) is never to be copied; and, since it cannot, he will
appear but lame in the best translation. The turns of his verse, his
breakings, his propriety, his numbers, and his gravity, I have as far
imitated, as the poverty of our language, and the hastiness of my
performance, would allow. I may seem sometimes to have varied from
his sense; but I think the greatest variations may be fairly deduced
from him; and where I leave his commentators, it may be I understand
him better: at least I writ without consulting them in many places.
But two particular lines in Mezentius and Lausus, I cannot so easily
excuse. They are indeed remotely allied to Virgil's sense; but they
are too like the trifling tenderness of Ovid, and were printed before
I had considered them enough to alter them. The first of them I have
forgotten, and cannot easily retrieve, because the copy is at the
press. The second is this:
When Lausus died, I was already slain.
This appears pretty enough at first sight; but I am convinced, for many
reasons, that the expression is too bold; that Virgil would not have
said it, though Ovid would. The reader may pardon it, if he please, for
the freeness of the confession; and instead of that, and the former,
admit these two lines, which are more according to the author:
Nor ask I life, nor fought with that design;
As I had used my fortune, use thou thine.
Having with much ado got clear of Virgil, I have, in the next place,
to consider the genius of Lucretius, whom I have translated more
happily in those parts of him which I undertook. If he was not of
the best age of Roman poetry, he was at least of that which preceded
it;[51] and he himself refined it to that degree of perfection, both
in the language and the thoughts, that he left an easy task to Virgil;
who, as he succeeded him in time, so he copied his excellencies; for
the method of the Georgics is plainly derived from him. Lucretius
had chosen a subject naturally crabbed; he therefore adorned it with
poetical descriptions, and precepts of morality, in the beginning and
ending of his books, which you see Virgil has imitated with great
success in those four books, which, in my opinion, are more perfect in
their kind than even his divine Æneids. The turn of his verses he has
likewise followed in those places which Lucretius has most laboured,
and some of his very lines he has transplanted into his own works,
without much variation. If I am not mistaken, the distinguishing
character of Lucretius (I mean of his soul and genius) is a certain
kind of noble pride, and positive assertion of his opinions. He is
every where confident of his own reason, and assuming an absolute
command, not only over his vulgar reader, but even his patron Memmius.
For he is always bidding him attend, as if he had the rod over him;
and using a magisterial authority, while he instructs him. From his
time to ours, I know none so like him, as our poet and philosopher
of Malmesbury.[52] This is that perpetual dictatorship, which is
exercised by Lucretius; who, though often in the wrong, yet seems
to deal _bonâ fide_ with his reader, and tells him nothing but what
he thinks; in which plain sincerity, I believe, he differs from our
Hobbes, who could not but be convinced, or at least doubt of some
eternal truths, which he has opposed. But for Lucretius, he seems to
disdain all manner of replies, and is so confident of his cause, that
he is beforehand with his antagonists; urging for them whatever he
imagined they could say, and leaving them, as he supposes, without
an objection for the future: all this, too, with so much scorn and
indignation, as if he were assured of the triumph, before he entered
into the lists. From this sublime and daring genius of his, it must of
necessity come to pass, that his thoughts must be masculine, full of
argumentation, and that sufficiently warm. From the same fiery temper
proceeds the loftiness of his expressions, and the perpetual torrent
of his verse, where the barrenness of his subject does not too much
constrain the quickness of his fancy. For there is no doubt to be
made, but that he could have been every where as poetical, as he is in
his descriptions, and in the moral part of his philosophy, if he had
not aimed more to instruct, in his system of nature, than to delight.
But he was bent upon making Memmius a materialist, and teaching him
to defy an invisible power: in short, he was so much an atheist, that
he forgot sometimes to be a poet. These are the considerations, which
I had of that author, before I attempted to translate some parts of
him. And accordingly I laid by my natural diffidence and scepticism
for a while, to take up that dogmatical way of his, which, as I said,
is so much his character, as to make him that individual poet. As
for his opinions concerning the mortality of the soul, they are so
absurd, that I cannot, if I would, believe them. I think a future state
demonstrable even by natural arguments; at least, to take away rewards
and punishments is only a pleasing prospect to a man, who resolves
beforehand not to live morally. But, on the other side, the thought of
being nothing after death is a burthen insupportable to a virtuous man,
even though a heathen. We naturally aim at happiness, and cannot bear
to have it confined to the shortness of our present being; especially
when we consider, that virtue is generally unhappy in this world, and
vice fortunate: so that it is hope of futurity alone, that makes this
life tolerable, in expectation of a better. Who would not commit all
the excesses, to which he is prompted by his natural inclinations,
if he may do them with security while he is alive, and be incapable
of punishment after he is dead? If he be cunning and secret enough
to avoid the laws, there is no band of morality to restrain him: for
fame and reputation are weak ties; many men have not the least sense
of them. Powerful men are only awed by them, as they conduce to their
interest, and that not always, when a passion is predominant; and no
man will be contained within the bounds of duty, when he may safely
transgress them. These are my thoughts abstractedly, and without
entering into the notions of our Christian faith, which is the proper
business of divines.
But there are other arguments in this poem (which I have turned into
English) not belonging to the mortality of the soul, which are strong
enough to a reasonable man, to make him less in love with life, and
consequently in less apprehensions of death. Such as are the natural
satiety proceeding from a perpetual enjoyment of the same things;
the inconveniences of old age, which make him incapable of corporeal
pleasures; the decay of understanding and memory, which render him
contemptible, and useless to others. These, and many other reasons,
so pathetically urged, so beautifully expressed so adorned with
examples, and so admirably raised by the _prosopopeia_ of Nature, who
is brought in speaking to her children with so much authority and
vigour, deserve the pains I have taken with them, which I hope have not
been unsuccessful, or unworthy of my author: at least I must take the
liberty to own, that I was pleased with my own endeavours, which but
rarely happens to me; and that I am not dissatisfied upon the review of
any thing I have done in this author.
It is true, there is something, and that of some moment, to be objected
against my englishing the Nature of Love, from the fourth book of
Lucretius; and I can less easily answer why I translated it, than why
I thus translated it. The objection arises from the obscenity of the
subject; which is aggravated by the too lively and alluring delicacy
of the verses. In the first place, without the least formality of an
excuse, I own it pleased me; and let my enemies make the worst they
can of this confession. I am not yet so secure from that passion, but
that I want my author's antidotes against it. He has given the truest
and most philosophical account, both of the disease and remedy, which
I ever found in any author; for which reasons I translated him. But it
will be asked, why I turned him into this luscious English, for I will
not give it a worse word. Instead of an answer, I would ask again of
my supercilious adversaries, whether I am not bound, when I translate
an author, to do him all the right I can, and to translate him to the
best advantage? If, to mince his meaning, which I am satisfied was
honest and instructive, I had either omitted some part of what he said,
or taken from the strength of his expression, I certainly had wronged
him; and that freeness of thought and words being thus cashiered in
my hands, he had no longer been Lucretius. If nothing of this kind
be to be read, physicians must not study nature, anatomies must not
be seen, and somewhat I could say of particular passages in books,
which, to avoid profaneness, I do not name. But the intention qualifies
the act; and both mine and my author's were to instruct, as well as
please. It is most certain, that bare-faced bawdry is the poorest
pretence to wit imaginable. If I should say otherwise, I should have
two great authorities against me: the one is the "Essay on Poetry,"
which I publicly valued before I knew the author of it, and with the
commendation of which my Lord Roscommon so happily begins his "Essay
on Translated Verse;" the other is no less than our admired Cowley, who
says the same thing in other words; for, in his "Ode concerning Wit,"
he writes thus of it:
Much less can that have any place,
At which a virgin hides her face;
Such dross the fire must purge away; 'tis just
The author blush, there, where the reader must.
Here indeed Mr Cowley goes farther than the Essay; for he asserts
plainly, that obscenity has no place in wit; the other only says, it
is a poor pretence to it, or an ill sort of wit, which has nothing
more to support it than bare-faced ribaldry; which is both unmannerly
in itself, and fulsome to the reader. But neither of these will reach
my case: for, in the first place, I am only the translator, not
the inventor; so that the heaviest part of the censure falls upon
Lucretius, before it reaches me: in the next place, neither he nor I
have used the grossest words, but the cleanliest metaphors we could
find, to palliate the broadness of the meaning; and, to conclude,
have carried the poetical part no farther, than the philosophical
exacted.[53]
There is one mistake of mine, which I will not lay to the printer's
charge, who has enough to answer for in false pointings; it is in the
word, _viper_: I would have the verse run thus:
The scorpion, love, must on the wound be bruised.[54]
There are a sort of blundering, half-witted people, who make a great
deal of noise about a verbal slip; though Horace would instruct them
better in true criticism:
----_non ego paucis
Offendar maculis, quas aut incuria fudit,
Aut humana parùm cavit natura._
True judgment in poetry, like that in painting, takes a view of the
whole together, whether it be good or not; and where the beauties
are more than the faults, concludes for the poet against the little
judge. It is a sign that malice is hard driven, when it is forced to
lay hold on a word or syllable: to arraign a man is one thing, and to
cavil at him is another. In the midst of an ill-natured generation of
scribblers, there is always justice enough left in mankind, to protect
good writers: and they too are obliged, both by humanity and interest,
to espouse each other's cause, against false critics, who are the
common enemies. This last consideration puts me in mind of what I owe
to the ingenious and learned translator of Lucretius.[55] I have not
here designed to rob him of any part of that commendation which he has
so justly acquired by the whole author, whose fragments only fall to
my portion. What I have now performed is no more than I intended above
twenty years ago. The ways of our translation are very different. He
follows him more closely than I have done, which became an interpreter
of the whole poem: I take more liberty, because it best suited with
my design, which was, to make him as pleasing as I could. He had been
too voluminous, had he used my method in so long a work; and I had
certainly taken his, had I made it my business to translate the whole.
The preference, then, is justly his; and I join with Mr Evelyn in the
confession of it, with this additional advantage to him, that his
reputation is already established in this poet, mine is to make its
fortune in the world. If I have been any where obscure, in following
our common author, or if Lucretius himself is to be condemned, I refer
myself to his excellent annotations, which I have often read, and
always with some new pleasure.
My preface begins already to swell upon me, and looks as if I were
afraid of my reader, by so tedious a bespeaking of him; and yet I have
Horace and Theocritus upon my hands; but the Greek gentleman shall
quickly be dispatched, because I have more business with the Roman.
That which distinguishes Theocritus from all other poets, both Greek
and Latin, and which raises him even above Virgil in his Eclogues, is
the inimitable tenderness of his passions, and the natural expression
of them in words so becoming of a pastoral. A simplicity shines through
all he writes. He shows his art and learning, by disguising both. His
shepherds never rise above their country education in their complaints
of love. There is the same difference betwixt him and Virgil, as there
is betwixt Tasso's "Aminta" and the "Pastor Fido" of Guarini. Virgil's
shepherds are too well read in the philosophy of Epicurus and of Plato,
and Guarini's seem to have been bred in courts; but Theocritus and
Tasso have taken theirs from cottages and plains. It was said of Tasso,
in relation to his similitudes, _mai esce del bosco_, that he never
departed from the woods; that is all his comparisons were taken from
the country. The same may be said of our Theocritus. He is softer than
Ovid: he touches the passions more delicately, and performs all this
out of his own fund, without diving into the arts and sciences for a
supply. Even his Doric dialect has an incomparable sweetness in its
clownishness, like a fair shepherdess in her country russet, talking in
a Yorkshire tone. This was impossible for Virgil to imitate; because
the severity of the Roman language denied him that advantage. Spenser
has endeavoured it in his "Shepherd's Calendar;" but neither will it
succeed in English; for which reason I forbore to attempt it. For
Theocritus writ to Sicilians, who spoke that dialect; and I direct this
part of my translations to our ladies, who neither understand, nor will
take pleasure in such homely expressions. I proceed to Horace.
Take him in parts, and he is chiefly to be considered in his three
different talents, as he was a critic, a satirist, and a writer of
odes. His morals are uniform, and run through all of them; for, let his
Dutch commentators say what they will, his philosophy was Epicurean;
and he made use of gods and providence only to serve a turn in poetry.
But since neither his Criticisms, which are the most instructive of any
that are written in this art, nor his Satires, which are incomparably
beyond Juvenal's, (if to laugh and rally is to be preferred to railing
and declaiming,) are no part of my present undertaking, I confine
myself wholly to his Odes. These are also of several sorts: some
of them are panegyrical, others moral, the rest jovial, or (if I
may so call them) Bacchanalian. As difficult as he makes it, and as
indeed it is, to imitate Pindar, yet, in his most elevated flights,
and in the sudden changes of his subject with almost imperceptible
connections, that Theban poet is his master. But Horace is of the more
bounded fancy, and confines himself strictly to one sort of verse,
or stanza, in every Ode. That which will distinguish his style from
all other poets, is the elegance of his words, and the numerousness
of his verse. There is nothing so delicately turned in all the Roman
language. There appears in every part of his diction, or (to speak
English) in all his expressions, a kind of noble and bold purity. His
words are chosen with as much exactness as Virgil's; but there seems to
be a greater spirit in them. There is a secret happiness attends his
choice, which in Petronius is called _curiosa felicitas_, and which I
suppose he had from the _feliciter audere_ of Horace himself. But the
most distinguishing part of all his character seems to me to be his
briskness, his jollity, and his good humour; and those I have chiefly
endeavoured to copy. His other excellencies, I confess, are above my
imitation. One Ode, which infinitely pleased me in the reading, I
have attempted to translate in Pindaric verse: it is that, which is
inscribed to the present Earl of Rochester, to whom I have particular
obligations, which this small testimony of my gratitude can never
pay.[56] It is his darling in the Latin, and I have taken some pains to
make it my master-piece in English; for which reason I took this kind
of verse, which allows more latitude than any other.
Every one knows it was introduced into our language, in this age,
by the happy genius of Mr Cowley. The seeming easiness of it has
made it spread; but it has not been considered enough, to be so well
cultivated. It languishes in almost every hand but his, and some very
few, whom (to keep the rest in countenance) I do not name. He, indeed,
has brought it as near perfection as was possible in so short a time.
But, if I may be allowed to speak my mind modestly, and without injury
to his sacred ashes, somewhat of the purity of English, somewhat of
more equal thoughts, somewhat of sweetness in the numbers, in one word,
somewhat of a finer turn, and more lyrical verse, is yet wanting. As
for the soul of it, which consists in the warmth and vigour of fancy,
the masterly figures, and the copiousness of imagination, he has
excelled all others in this kind. Yet if the kind itself be capable of
more perfection, though rather in the ornamental parts of it than the
essential, what rules of morality or respect have I broken, in naming
the defects, that they may hereafter be amended? Imitation is a nice
point, and there are few poets who deserve to be models in all they
write. Milton's "Paradise Lost" is admirable; but am I therefore bound
to maintain, that there are no flats amongst his elevations, when it is
evident he creeps along sometimes for above an hundred lines together?
Cannot I admire the height of his invention, and the strength of his
expression, without defending his antiquated words, and the perpetual
harshness of their sound? It is as much commendation as a man can bear,
to own him excellent; all beyond it is idolatry. Since Pindar was the
prince of lyric poets, let me have leave to say, that, in imitating
him, our numbers should, for the most part, be lyrical: for variety, or
rather where the majesty of thought requires it, they may be stretched
to the English heroick of five feet, and to the French Alexandrine of
six. But the ear must preside, and direct the judgment to the choice
of numbers. Without the nicety of this, the harmony of Pindaric verse
can never be complete; the cadency of one line must be a rule to that
of the next; and the sound of the former must slide gently into that
which follows, without leaping from one extreme into another. It must
be done like the shadowings of a picture, which fall by degrees into
a darker colour. I shall be glad, if I have so explained myself as
to be understood; but if I have not, _quod nequeo dicere, et sentio
tantum_,[57] must be my excuse.
There remains much more to be said on this subject; but, to avoid envy,
I will be silent. What I have said is the general opinion of the best
judges, and in a manner has been forced from me, by seeing a noble sort
of poetry so happily restored by one man, and so grossly copied by
almost all the rest. A musical ear, and a great genius, if another Mr
Cowley could arise in another age, may bring it to perfection. In the
mean time,
----_fungar vice cotis, acutum
Reddere quæ ferrum valet, expers ipsa secandi_.
I hope it will not be expected from me, that I should say any thing of
my fellow undertakers in this Miscellany. Some of them are too nearly
related to me, to be commended without suspicion of partiality;[58]
others I am sure need it not; and the rest I have not perused.
To conclude, I am sensible that I have written this too hastily and too
loosely; I fear I have been tedious, and, which is worse, it comes out
from the first draught, and uncorrected. This I grant is no excuse; for
it may be reasonably urged, why did he not write with more leisure, or,
if he had it not, (which was certainly my case,) why did he attempt to
write on so nice a subject? The objection is unanswerable; but, in part
of recompence, let me assure the reader, that, in hasty productions, he
is sure to meet with an author's present sense, which cooler thoughts
would possibly have disguised. There is undoubtedly more of spirit,
though not of judgment, in these uncorrect essays; and consequently,
though my hazard be the greater, yet the reader's pleasure is not the
less.
JOHN DRYDEN.
FOOTNOTES:
[47] Mainburg's "History of the League," translated by our
author, at the command of Charles II.
[48] First published in 1680.
[49] Sir Peter Lely, by birth a Dutchman, came to England in
1641, and died in 1680. There is a remarkable similarity between his
female portraits, which seems to have arisen from the circumstance
mentioned by Dryden, of his bringing all his subjects as near as
possible to his own idea of the beautiful. Pope's lines in his praise
are too well known to be quoted.
[50] Annibale Caro died at Rome, 1566.
[51] He died in the year of Rome 699, before the commencement
of the Augustan age.
[52] The celebrated Hobbes, who died in 1679.
[53] I wish our author had attended to his noble friend
Roscommon's recommendation:
Immodest words admit of no defence,
For want of decency is want of sense;
What moderate fop would range the Park, or stews,
Who among troops of faultless nymphs might chuse?
[54] This error, however, went through the subsequent
editions.
[55] Thomas Creech, a particular friend of our author. He
was born in 1659, and in June 1700 committed suicide; for which rash
action no adequate cause has been assigned. Besides the translation
of Lucretius, which is his principal work, he executed an indifferent
version of Horace, and translated parts of Theocritus, Ovid, Juvenal,
Virgil, &c. In his translation of Lucretius, he omitted the indelicate
part of the Fourth Book; a deficiency which Dryden thought fit to
supply, for which he has above assigned some very inadequate reasons.
Creech's Lucretius first appeared at Oxford, in 8vo, 1682, and was
reprinted in the year following. The annotations, to which our author
alludes a little lower, were originally attached to a Latin edition
of Lucretius, superintended by Creech, and afterwards transferred to
his English version. They display great learning, and an intimate
acquaintance with the Epicurean philosophy.
[56] Our author, in the Dedication to "Cleomenes," compliments
Lord Rochester on his power of critically understanding the beauties of
Horace, and upon his particular affection for this particular Ode. See
Vol. VIII. p. 193.
[57] Mr Malone has observed, that this quotation, as well as
that which follows, is inaccurate; the words of Juvenal are, "nequeo
_monstrare_, et sentio tantum."
[58] Dryden's son was amongst the contributors.
TRANSLATIONS
FROM
THEOCRITUS.
AMARYLLIS:
OR,
THE THIRD IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS, PARAPHRASED.[59]
To Amaryllis love compels my way,
My browzing goats upon the mountains stray;
O Tityrus, tend them well, and see them fed }
In pastures fresh, and to their watering led; }
And 'ware the ridgling with his budding head. }
Ah, beauteous nymph! can you forget your love,
The conscious grottos, and the shady grove,
Where stretched at ease your tender limbs were laid,
Your nameless beauties nakedly displayed?
Then I was called your darling, your desire,
With kisses such as set my soul on fire:
But you are changed, yet I am still the same;
My heart maintains for both a double flame,
Grieved, but unmoved, and patient of your scorn;
So faithful I, and you so much forsworn!
I die, and death will finish all my pain;
Yet, ere I die, behold me once again:
Am I so much deformed, so changed of late?
What partial judges are our love and hate!
Ten wildings have I gathered for my dear;
How ruddy, like your lips, their streaks appear!
Far-off you viewed them with a longing eye
Upon the topmost branch (the tree was high);
Yet nimbly up, from bough to bough, I swerved,[60]
And for to-morrow have ten more reserved.
Look on me kindly, and some pity shew,
Or give me leave at least to look on you.
Some god transform me by his heavenly power,
Even to a bee to buzz within your bower,
The winding ivy-chaplet to invade,
And folded fern, that your fair forehead shade.
Now to my cost the force of love I find,
The heavy hand it bears on human kind.
The milk of tygers was his infant food, }
Taught from his tender years the taste of blood; }
His brother whelps and he ran wild about the wood. }
Ah nymph, trained up in his tyrannic court,
To make the sufferings of your slaves your sport!
Unheeded ruin! treacherous delight!
O polished hardness, softened to the sight!
Whose radiant eyes your ebon brows adorn,
Like midnight those, and these like break of morn!
Smile once again, revive me with your charms,
And let me die contented in your arms.
I would not ask to live another day,
Might I but sweetly kiss my soul away.
Ah, why am I from empty joys debarred?
For kisses are but empty when compared.
I rave, and in my raging fit shall tear
The garland, which I wove for you to wear,
Of parsley, with a wreath of ivy bound,
And bordered with a rosy edging round.
What pangs I feel, unpitied and unheard!
Since I must die, why is my fate deferred!
I strip my body of my shepherd's frock;
Behold that dreadful downfal of a rock,
Where yon old fisher views the waves from high!
'Tis that convenient leap I mean to try.
You would be pleased to see me plunge to shore,
But better pleased if I should rise no more.
I might have read my fortune long ago,
When, seeking my success in love to know,
I tried the infallible prophetic way,
A poppy-leaf upon my palm to lay.
I struck, and yet no lucky crack did follow;
Yet I struck hard, and yet the leaf lay hollow;
And, which was worse, if any worse could prove,
The withering leaf foreshowed your withering love.
Yet farther,--ah, how far a lover dares!
My last recourse I had to sieve and sheers,
And told the witch Agreo my disease:
(Agreo, that in harvest used to lease;
But, harvest done, to chare-work did aspire;
Meat, drink, and two-pence was her daily hire;)
To work she went, her charms she muttered o'er, }
And yet the resty sieve wagged ne'er the more; }
I wept for woe, the testy beldame swore, }
And, foaming with her God, foretold my fate,
That I was doomed to love, and you to hate.
A milk-white goat for you I did provide;
Two milk-white kids run frisking by her side,
For which the nut-brown lass, Erithacis,
Full often offered many a savoury kiss.
Hers they shall be, since you refuse the price;
What madman would o'erstand his market twice!
My right eye itches, some good-luck is near, }
Perhaps my Amaryllis may appear; }
I'll set up such a note as she shall hear. }
What nymph but my melodious voice would move?
She must be flint, if she refuse my love.
Hippomenes, who ran with noble strife }
To win his lady, or to lose his life, }
(What shift some men will make to get a wife?) }
Threw down a golden apple in her way;
For all her haste, she could not choose but stay:
Renown said, Run; the glittering bribe cried, Hold;
The man might have been hanged, but for his gold.
Yet some suppose 'twas love, (some few indeed!)
That stopt the fatal fury of her speed:
She saw, she sighed; her nimble feet refuse
Their wonted speed, and she took pains to lose.
A prophet some, and some a poet cry,[61]
(No matter which, so neither of them lie,)
From steepy Othry's top to Pylus drove
His herd, and for his pains enjoyed his love.
If such another wager should be laid,
I'll find the man, if you can find the maid.
Why name I men, when love extended finds
His power on high, and in celestial minds?
Venus the shepherd's homely habit took,
And managed something else besides the crook;
Nay, when Adonis died, was heard to roar,
And never from her heart forgave the boar.
How blest was fair Endymion with his moon,
Who sleeps on Latmos' top from night to noon!
What Jason from Medea's love possest,
You shall not hear, but know 'tis like the rest.
My aching head can scarce support the pain;
This cursed love will surely turn my brain:
Feel how it shoots, and yet you take no pity;
Nay, then, 'tis time to end my doleful ditty.
A clammy sweat does o'er my temples creep,
My heavy eyes are urged with iron sleep;
I lay me down to gasp my latest breath,
The wolves will get a breakfast by my death;
Yet scarce enough their hunger to supply,
For love has made me carrion ere I die.
FOOTNOTES:
[59] This appeared in the First Miscellany.
[60] To swerve, as the word is here used, means to draw one's
self up a tree by clinging round it with the legs and arms. It occurs
in the old ballad of Sir Andrew Barton, where he sends one of his men
aloft:
Then Gordon swarved the maine-mast tree,
He swarved it with might and main.
_Reliques of Ancient Poetry_, Vol. II. p. 192
[61] Melampus, the son of Amythaon, was a prophet and
physician. Tibullus cites him in the character of an augur:
_compertum est veracibus ut mihi signis,
Queis Amythaonius nequeat certare Melampus._
As a physician, he discovered the use of hellebore; thence called
Melampodium.
THE EPITHALAMIUM OF HELEN AND MENELAUS.
FROM THE EIGHTEENTH IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS.[62]
Twelve Spartan virgins, noble, young, and fair,
With violet wreaths adorned their flowing hair;
And to the pompous palace did resort,
Where Menelaus kept his royal court.
There, hand in hand, a comely choir they led, }
To sing a blessing to his nuptial bed, }
With curious needles wrought, and painted flowers bespread. }
Jove's beauteous daughter now his bride must be,
And Jove himself was less a God than he;
For this their artful hands instruct the lute to sound,
Their feet assist their hands, and justly beat the ground.
This was their song:--Why, happy bridegroom, why,
Ere yet the stars are kindled in the sky,
Ere twilight shades, or evening dews are shed,
Why dost thou steal so soon away to bed?
Has Somnus brushed thy eye-lids with his rod, }
Or do thy legs refuse to bear their load, }
With flowing bowls of a more generous god? }
If gentle slumber on thy temples creep,
(But, naughty man, thou dost not mean to sleep,)
Betake thee to thy bed, thou drowzy drone,
Sleep by thyself, and leave thy bride alone:
Go, leave her with her maiden mates to play
At sports more harmless till the break of day;
Give us this evening; thou hast morn and night,
And all the year before thee, for delight.
O happy youth! to thee, among the crowd
Of rival princes, Cupid sneezed aloud;
And every lucky omen sent before,
To meet thee landing on the Spartan shore.
Of all our heroes, thou canst boast alone,
That Jove, whene'er he thunders, calls thee son;
Betwixt two sheets thou shalt enjoy her bare, }
With whom no Grecian virgin can compare; }
So soft, so sweet, so balmy, and so fair. }
A boy, like thee, would make a kingly line;
But oh, a girl like her must be divine.
Her equals we in years, but not in face,
Twelve score viragos of the Spartan race,
While naked to Eurotas' banks we bend,
And there in manly exercise contend,
When she appears, are all eclipsed and lost,
And hide the beauties that we made our boast.
So, when the night and winter disappear,
The purple morning, rising with the year,
Salutes the spring, as her celestial eyes
Adorn the world, and brighten all the skies;
So beauteous Helen shines among the rest,
Tall, slender, straight, with all the Graces blest.
As pines the mountains, or as fields the corn,
Or as Thessalian steeds the race adorn;
So rosy-coloured Helen is the pride
Of Lacedemon, and of Greece beside.
Like her no nymph can willing osiers bend }
In basket-works, which painted streaks commend; }
With Pallas in the loom she may contend. }
But none, ah! none can animate the lyre,
And the mute strings with vocal souls inspire;
Whether the learned Minerva be her theme,
Or chaste Diana bathing in the stream,
None can record their heavenly praise so well
As Helen, in whose eyes ten thousand Cupids dwell.
O fair, O graceful! yet with maids enrolled,
But whom to-morrow's sun a matron shall behold!
Yet ere to-morrow's sun shall show his head, }
The dewy paths of meadows we will tread, }
For crowns and chaplets to adorn thy head. }
Where all shall weep, and wish for thy return,
As bleating lambs their absent mother mourn.
Our noblest maids shall to thy name bequeath
The boughs of Lotos, formed into a wreath.
This monument, thy maiden beauties due,
High on a plane-tree shall be hung to view;
On the smooth rind the passenger shall see
Thy name engraved, and worship Helen's tree;
Balm, from a silver-box distilled around,
Shall all bedew the roots, and scent the sacred ground.
The balm, 'tis true, can aged plants prolong,
But Helen's name will keep it ever young.
Hail bride, hail bridegroom, son-in-law to Jove!
With fruitful joys Latona bless your love!
Let Venus furnish you with full desires,
Add vigour to your wills, and fuel to your fires!
Almighty Jove augment your wealthy store,
Give much to you, and to his grandsons more!
From generous loins a generous race will spring,
Each girl, like her, a queen; each boy, like you, a king.
Now sleep, if sleep you can; but while you rest,
Sleep close, with folded arms, and breast to breast.
Rise in the morn; but oh! before you rise,
Forget not to perform your morning sacrifice.
We will be with you ere the crowing cock
Salutes the light, and struts before his feathered flock.
Hymen, oh Hymen, to thy triumphs run,
And view the mighty spoils thou hast in battle won!
FOOTNOTES:
[62] This and the three following Idylliums were first
published in the Second Miscellany.
THE DESPAIRING LOVER.
FROM THE TWENTY-THIRD IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS.
With inauspicious love, a wretched swain
Pursued the fairest nymph of all the plain;
Fairest indeed, but prouder far than fair,
She plunged him hopeless in a deep despair:
Her heavenly form too haughtily she prized,
His person hated, and his gifts despised;
Nor knew the force of Cupid's cruel darts,
Nor feared his awful power on human hearts;
But either from her hopeless lover fled,
Or with disdainful glances shot him dead.
No kiss, no look, to cheer the drooping boy,
No word she spoke, she scorned even to deny;
But, as a hunted panther casts about
Her glaring eyes, and pricks her listening ears to scout;
So she, to shun his toils, her cares employed,
And fiercely in her savage freedom joyed.
Her mouth she writhed, her forehead taught to frown,
Her eyes to sparkle fires to love unknown;
Her sallow cheeks her envious mind did shew,
And every feature spoke aloud the curstness of a shrew.
Yet could not he his obvious fate escape;
His love still dressed her in a pleasing shape;
And every sullen frown, and bitter scorn,
But fanned the fuel that too fast did burn.
Long time, unequal to his mighty pain,
He strove to curb it, but he strove in vain;
At last his woes broke out, and begged relief
With tears, the dumb petitioners of grief;
With tears so tender, as adorned his love,
And any heart, but only hers, would move.
Trembling before her bolted doors he stood,
And there poured out the unprofitable flood;
Staring his eyes, and hagard was his look;
Then, kissing first the threshold, thus he spoke.
Ah nymph, more cruel than of human race!
Thy tygress heart belies thy angel face;
Too well thou show'st thy pedigree from stone,
Thy grandame's was the first by Pyrrha thrown;
Unworthy thou to be so long desired;
But so my love, and so my fate required.
I beg not now (for 'tis in vain) to live;
But take this gift, the last that I can give.
This friendly cord shall soon decide the strife
Betwixt my lingering love and loathsome life:
This moment puts an end to all my pain;
I shall no more despair, nor thou disdain.
Farewell, ungrateful and unkind! I go
Condemned by thee to those sad shades below.
I go the extremest remedy to prove,
To drink oblivion, and to drench my love:
There happily to lose my long desires;
But ah! what draught so deep to quench my fires?
Farewell, ye never-opening gates, ye stones,
And threshold guilty of my midnight moans!
What I have suffered here ye know too well;
What I shall do, the Gods and I can tell.
The rose is fragrant, but it fades in time;
The violet sweet, but quickly past the prime;
White lilies hang their heads, and soon decay,
And whiter snow in minutes melts away:
Such is your blooming youth, and withering so;
The time will come, it will, when you shall know
The rage of love; your haughty heart shall burn
In flames like mine, and meet a like return.
Obdurate as you are, oh! hear at least
My dying prayers, and grant my last request!--
When first you ope your doors, and, passing by,
The sad ill-omened object meets your eye,
Think it not lost a moment if you stay;
The breathless wretch, so made by you, survey;
Some cruel pleasure will from thence arise,
To view the mighty ravage of your eyes.
I wish (but oh! my wish is vain, I fear)
The kind oblation of a falling tear.
Then loose the knot, and take me from the place,
And spread your mantle o'er my grisly face;
Upon my livid lips bestow a kiss,--
O envy not the dead, they feel not bliss!
Nor fear your kisses can restore my breath;
Even you are not more pitiless than death.
Then for my corpse a homely grave provide,
Which love and me from public scorn may hide;
Thrice call upon my name, thrice beat your breast,
And hail me thrice to everlasting rest:
Last, let my tomb this sad inscription bear;-- }
"A wretch, whom love has killed, lies buried here; }
"O passengers, Aminta's eyes beware." }
Thus having said, and furious with his love,
He heaved, with more than human force, to move
A weighty stone, (the labour of a team,)
And, raised from thence, he reached the neighbouring beam;
Around its bulk a sliding knot he throws,
And fitted to his neck the fatal noose;
Then, spurning backward, took a swing, till death
Crept up, and stopt the passage of his breath.
The bounce burst ope the door; the scornful fair
Relentless looked, and saw him beat his quivering feet in air;
Nor wept his fate, nor cast a pitying eye,
Nor took him down, but brushed regardless by;
And, as she past, her chance or fate was such,
Her garments touched the dead, polluted by the touch.
Next to the dance, thence to the bath did move;
The bath was sacred to the God of Love;
Whose injured image, with a wrathful eye,
Stood threatning from a pedestal on high.
Nodding a while, and watchful of his blow,
He fell, and, falling, crushed the ungrateful nymph below:
Her gushing blood the pavement all besmeared;
And this her last expiring voice was heard;--
"Lovers, farewell, revenge has reached my scorn;
"Thus warned, be wise, and love for love return."
DAPHNIS AND CHLORIS.
FROM THE TWENTY SEVENTH IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS.
DAPHNIS.
The shepherd Paris bore the Spartan bride
By force away, and then by force enjoyed;
But I by free consent can boast a bliss,
A fairer Helen, and a sweeter kiss.
CHLORIS.
Kisses are empty joys, and soon are o'er.
DAPHNIS.
A kiss betwixt the lips is something more.
CHLORIS.
I wipe my mouth, and where's your kissing then?
DAPHNIS.
I swear you wipe it to be kissed agen.
CHLORIS.
Go, tend your herd, and kiss your cows at home;
I am a maid, and in my beauty's bloom.
DAPHNIS.
'Tis well remembered; do not waste your time,
But wisely use it ere you pass your prime.
CHLORIS.
Blown roses hold their sweetness to the last,
And raisins keep their luscious native taste.
DAPHNIS.
The sun's too hot; those olive shades are near;
I fain would whisper something in your ear.
CHLORIS.
'Tis honest talking where we may be seen; }
God knows what secret mischief you may mean; }
I doubt you'll play the wag, and kiss again. }
DAPHNIS.
At least beneath yon elm you need not fear;
My pipe's in tune, if you're disposed to hear.
CHLORIS.
Play by yourself, I dare not venture thither;
You, and your naughty pipe, go hang together.
DAPHNIS.
Coy nymph, beware, lest Venus you offend.
CHLORIS.
I shall have chaste Diana still to friend.
DAPHNIS.
You have a soul, and Cupid has a dart.
CHLORIS.
Diana will defend, or heal my heart.
Nay, fie, what mean you in this open place?
Unhand me, or I swear I'll scratch your face.
Let go for shame; you make me mad for spite;
My mouth's my own; and, if you kiss, I'll bite.
DAPHNIS.
Away with your dissembling female tricks;
What, would you 'scape the fate of all your sex?
CHLORIS.
I swear, I'll keep my maidenhead till death,
And die as pure as queen Elizabeth.
DAPHNIS.
Nay, mum for that; but let me lay thee down;
Better with me, than with some nauseous clown.
CHLORIS.
I'd have you know, if I were so inclined, }
I have been woo'd by many a wealthy hind; }
But never found a husband to my mind. }
DAPHNIS.
But they are absent all; and I am here. }
}
CHLORIS. }
}
The matrimonial yoke is hard to bear, }
And marriage is a woeful word to hear. }
DAPHNIS.
A scarecrow, set to frighten fools away;
Marriage has joys, and you shall have assay.
CHLORIS.
Sour sauce is often mixed with our delight;
You kick by day more than you kiss by night.
DAPHNIS.
Sham stories all; but say the worst you can,
A very wife fears neither God nor man.
CHLORIS.
But child-birth is, they say, a deadly pain;
It costs at least a month to knit again.
DAPHNIS.
Diana cures the wounds Lucina made;
Your goddess is a midwife by her trade.
CHLORIS.
But I shall spoil my beauty, if I bear.
DAPHNIS.
But Mam and Dad are pretty names to hear.
CHLORIS.
But there's a civil question used of late;
Where lies my jointure, where your own estate?
DAPHNIS.
My flocks, my fields, my woods, my pastures take,
With settlement as good as law can make.
CHLORIS.
Swear then you will not leave me on the common,
But marry me, and make an honest woman.
DAPHNIS.
I swear by Pan, though he wears horns you'll say,
Cudgelled and kicked, I'll not be forced away.
CHLORIS.
I bargain for a wedding-bed at least,
A house, and handsome lodging for a guest.
DAPHNIS.
A house well furnished shall be thine to keep;
And, for a flock-bed, I can sheer my sheep.
CHLORIS.
What tale shall I to my old father tell?
DAPHNIS.
'Twill make him chuckle thou'rt bestowed so well.
CHLORIS.
But, after all, in troth I am to blame
To be so loving, ere I know your name;
A pleasant sounding name's a pretty thing.
DAPHNIS.
Faith, mine's a very pretty name to sing.
They call me Daphnis; Lycidas my sire;
Both sound as well as woman can desire.
Nomæa bore me; farmers in degree;
He a good husband, a good housewife she.
CHLORIS.
Your kindred is not much amiss, 'tis true;
Yet I am somewhat better born than you.
DAPHNIS.
I know your father, and his family;
And, without boasting, am as good as he,
Menalcas; and no master goes before.
CHLORIS.
Hang both our pedigrees! not one word more;
But if you love me, let me see your living,
Your house, and home; for seeing is believing.
DAPHNIS.
See first yon cypress grove, a shade from noon.
CHLORIS.
Browze on, my goats; for I'll be with you soon.
DAPHNIS.
Feed well, my bulls, to whet your appetite,
That each may take a lusty leap at night.
CHLORIS.
What do you mean, uncivil as you are,
To touch my breasts, and leave my bosom bare?
DAPHNIS.
These pretty bubbies, first, I make my own.
CHLORIS.
Pull out your hand, I swear, or I shall swoon.
DAPHNIS.
Why does thy ebbing blood forsake thy face?
CHLORIS.
Throw me at least upon a cleaner place;
My linen ruffled, and my waistcoat soiling--
What, do you think new clothes were made for spoiling?
DAPHNIS.
I'll lay my lambkins underneath thy back.
CHLORIS.
My head-gear's off; what filthy work you make!
DAPHNIS.
To Venus, first, I lay these offerings by.
CHLORIS.
Nay, first look round, that nobody be nigh:
Methinks I hear a whispering in the grove.
DAPHNIS.
The cypress trees are telling tales of love.
CHLORIS.
You tear off all behind me, and before me;
And I'm as naked as my mother bore me.
DAPHNIS.
I'll buy thee better clothes than these I tear,
And lie so close I'll cover thee from air.
CHLORIS.
You're liberal now; but when your turn is sped,
You'll wish me choked with every crust of bread.
DAPHNIS.
I'll give thee more, much more than I have told;
Would I could coin my very heart to gold!
CHLORIS.
Forgive thy handmaid, huntress of the wood!
I see there's no resisting flesh and blood!
DAPHNIS.
The noble deed is done!--my herds I'll cull;
Cupid, be thine a calf; and Venus, thine a bull.
CHLORIS.
A maid I came in an unlucky hour,
But hence return without my virgin flower.
DAPHNIS.
A maid is but a barren name at best;
If thou canst hold, I bid for twins at least.
Thus did this happy pair their love dispense
With mutual joys, and gratified their sense;
The God of Love was there, a bidden guest,
And present at his own mysterious feast.
His azure mantle underneath he spread,
And scattered roses on the nuptial bed;
While folded in each other's arms they lay, }
He blew the flames, and furnished out the play, }
And from their foreheads wiped the balmy sweat away. }
First rose the maid, and with a glowing face,
Her downcast eyes beheld her print upon the grass;
Thence to her herd she sped herself in haste: }
The bridegroom started from his trance at last, }
And piping homeward jocundly he past. }
TRANSLATIONS
FROM
LUCRETIUS.
THE BEGINNING OF THE FIRST BOOK OF LUCRETIUS.
Delight of human kind, and gods above,
Parent of Rome, propitious Queen of Love!
Whose vital power, air, earth, and sea supplies,
And breeds whate'er is born beneath the rolling skies;
For every kind, by thy prolific might,
Springs, and beholds the regions of the light.
Thee, goddess, thee the clouds and tempests fear,
And at thy pleasing presence disappear;
For thee the land in fragrant flowers is drest; }
For thee the ocean smiles, and smooths her wavy breast, }
And heaven itself with more serene and purer light is blest. }
For, when the rising spring adorns the mead,
And a new scene of nature stands displayed,
When teeming buds, and cheerful greens appear,
And western gales unlock the lazy year;
The joyous birds thy welcome first express,
Whose native songs thy genial fire confess;
Then savage beasts bound o'er their slighted food,
Struck with thy darts, and tempt the raging flood.
All nature is thy gift; earth, air, and sea;
Of all that breathes, the various progeny,
Stung with delight, is goaded on by thee.
O'er barren mountains, o'er the flowery plain,
The leafy forest, and the liquid main,
Extends thy uncontrouled and boundless reign;
Through all the living regions dost thou move,
And scatterest, where thou goest, the kindly seeds of love.
Since, then, the race of every living thing
Obeys thy power; since nothing new can spring
Without thy warmth, without thy influence bear,
Or beautiful, or lovesome can appear;
Be thou my aid, my tuneful song inspire,
And kindle with thy own productive fire;
While all thy province, Nature, I survey, }
And sing to Memmius an immortal lay }
Of heaven and earth, and every where thy wondrous power display: }
To Memmius, under thy sweet influence born,
Whom thou with all thy gifts and graces dost adorn.
The rather then assist my Muse and me,
Infusing verses worthy him and thee.
Mean time on land and sea let barbarous discord cease,
And lull the listning world in universal peace.
To thee mankind their soft repose must owe,
For thou alone that blessing canst bestow;
Because the brutal business of the war
Is managed by thy dreadful servant's care;
Who oft retires from fighting fields, to prove
The pleasing pains of thy eternal love;
And, panting on thy breast, supinely lies,
While with thy heavenly form he feeds his famished eyes;
Sucks in with open lips thy balmy breath,
By turns restored to life, and plunged in pleasing death.
There while thy curling limbs about him move,
Involved and fettered in the links of love,
When, wishing all, he nothing can deny,
Thy charms in that auspicious moment try;
With winning eloquence our peace implore,
And quiet to the weary world restore.
THE BEGINNING OF
THE SECOND BOOK OF LUCRETIUS.
'Tis pleasant, safely to behold from shore
The rolling ship, and hear the tempest roar;
Not that another's pain is our delight,
But pains unfelt produce the pleasing sight.
'Tis pleasant also to behold from far
The moving legions mingled in the war;
But much more sweet thy labouring steps to guide }
To virtue's heights, with wisdom well supplied, }
And all the magazines of learning fortified; }
From thence to look below on human kind,
Bewildered in the maze of life, and blind;
To see vain fools ambitiously contend
For wit and power; their last endeavours bend
To outshine each other, waste their time and health
In search of honour, and pursuit of wealth.
O wretched man! in what a mist of life,
Inclosed with dangers and with noisy strife,
He spends his little span; and overfeeds
His crammed desires, with more than nature needs!
For nature wisely stints our appetite,
And craves no more than undisturbed delight;
Which minds, unmixed with cares and fears, obtain;
A soul serene, a body void of pain.
So little this corporeal frame requires,
So bounded are our natural desires,
That wanting all, and setting pain aside,
With bare privation sense is satisfied.
If golden sconces hang not on the walls,
To light the costly suppers and the balls;
If the proud palace shines not with the state
Of burnished bowls, and of reflected plate;
If well-tuned harps, nor the more pleasing sound
Of voices, from the vaulted roofs rebound;
Yet on the grass, beneath a poplar shade,
By the cool stream, our careless limbs are laid;
With cheaper pleasures innocently blest,
When the warm spring with gaudy flowers is drest.
Nor will the raging fever's fire abate,
With golden canopies and beds of state;
But the poor patient will as soon be sound
On the hard mattress, or the mother ground.
Then since our bodies are not eased the more
By birth, or power, or fortune's wealthy store,
'Tis plain, these useless toys of every kind
As little can relieve the labouring mind;
Unless we could suppose the dreadful sight
Of marshalled legions moving to the fight,
Could, with their sound and terrible array,
Expel our fears, and drive the thoughts of death away.
But, since the supposition vain appears,
Since clinging cares, and trains of inbred fears,
Are not with sounds to be affrighted thence,
But in the midst of pomp pursue the prince,
Not awed by arms, but in the presence bold,
Without respect to purple, or to gold;
Why should not we these pageantries despise,
Whose worth but in our want of reason lies?
For life is all in wandering errors led;
And just as children are surprised with dread,
And tremble in the dark, so riper years,
Even in broad day-light, are possessed with fears,
And shake at shadows fanciful and vain,
As those which in the breasts of children reign.
These bugbears of the mind, this inward hell,
No rays of outward sunshine can dispel;
But nature and right reason must display
Their beams abroad, and bring the darksome soul to-day.
THE LATTER PART OF
THE THIRD BOOK OF LUCRETIUS.
AGAINST THE FEAR OF DEATH.