John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  Two Sons dispatching, at one deadly Draught. 835

  What Two, Two Sons, thou Viper, in one day?

  Yes, sev’n, she cries, if sev’n were in my way.

  Medea’s Legend is no more a Lye;

  Our Age adds Credit to Antiquity.

  Great Ills, we grant, in former times did Reign, 840

  And Murthers then were done: but not for Gain.

  Less Admiration to great Crimes is due,

  Which they Through Wrath, or through Revenge pursue.

  For, weak of Reason, impotent of Will,

  The Sex is hurri’d headlong into Ill: 845

  And, like a Cliff from its foundations torn,

  By raging Earthquakes, into Seas is born.

  But those are Fiends, who Crimes from thought begin,

  And, cool in Mischief, meditate the Sin.

  They Read th’ Example of a Pious Wife, 850

  Redeeming, with her own, her Husband’s Life;

  Yet, if the Laws did that Exchange afford,

  Would save their Lapdog sooner than their Lord.

  Where e’re you walk, the Belides you meet;

  And Clytemnestra’s grow in ev’ry Street: 855

  But here’s the difference; Agamemnon’s Wife

  Was a gross Butcher, with a bloody Knife;

  But Murther, now, is to perfection grown,

  And subtle Poysons are employ’d alone:

  Unless some Antidote prevents their Arts, 860

  And lines with Balsom all the Noble parts:

  In such a case, reserv’d for such a need,

  Rather than fail, the Dagger does the Deed.

  The End of the Sixth Satyr.

  Juvenal: The Tenth Satyr

  ARGUMENT of the Tenth Satyr

  The Poet’s Design, in this Divine Satyr, is to represent the various Wishes and Desires of Mankind; and to set out the Folly of ‘em. He runs through all the several Heads of Riches, Honours, Eloquence, Fame for Martial Atchievements, Long-Life, and Beauty; and gives Instances, in Each, how frequently they have prov’d the Ruin of those that Own’d them. He concludes therefore, that since we generally chuse so ill for our selves, we shou’d do better to leave it to the Gods, to make the choice for us. All we can safely ask of Heaven lies within a very small Compass. ’Tis but Health of Body and Mind. — And if we have these, ’tis not much matter what we want besides: For we have already enough to make us Happy.

  The Tenth Satyr

  LOOK round the Habitable World, how few

  Know their own Good; or knowing it, pursue.

  How void of Reason are our Hopes and Fears!

  What in the Conduct of our Life appears

  So well design’d, so luckily begun, 5

  But, when we have our wish, we wish undone?

  Whole Houses, of their whole Desires possest,

  Are often Ruin’d, at their own Request.

  In Wars, and Peace, things hurtful we require,

  When made Obnoxious to our own Desire. 10

  With Laurels some have fatally been Crown’d;

  Some who the depths of Eloquence have found,

  In that unnavigable Stream were Drown’d.

  The Brawny Fool, who did his Vigour boast,

  In that Presumeing Confidence was lost: 15

  But more have been by Avarice opprest,

  And Heaps of Money crouded in the Chest:

  Unwieldy Sums of Wealth, which higher mount

  Than Files of Marshall’d Figures can account.

  To which the Stores of Crœsus, in the Scale, 20

  Wou’d look like little Dolphins, when they sail

  In the vast Shadow of the British Whale.

  For this, in Nero’s Arbitrary time,

  When Virtue was a Guilt, and Wealth a Crime,

  A Troop of Cut-Throat Guards were sent, to seize 25

  The Rich Mens Goods, and gut their Palaces:

  The Mob, Commission’d by the Government,

  Are seldom to an Empty Garret sent.

  The Fearful Passenger, who Travels late,

  Charg’d with the Carriage of a Paltry Plate, 30

  Shakes at the Moonshine shadow of a Rush;

  And sees a Red-Coat rise from every Bush:

  The Beggar Sings, ev’n when he sees the place

  Beset with Thieves, and never mends his pace.

  Of all the Vows, the first and chief Request 35

  Of each, is to be Richer than the rest:

  And yet no doubts the Poor Man’s Draught controul,

  He dreads no Poison in his homely Bowl,

  Then fear the deadly Drug, when Gems Divine

  Enchase the Cup, and sparkle in the Wine. 40

  Will you not now, the pair of Sages praise,

  Who the same End pursu’d, by several Ways?

  One pity’d, one contemn’d the Woful Times:

  One laugh’d at Follies, one lamented Crimes:

  Laughter is easie; but the Wonder lies, 45

  What stores of Brine supplyd the Weepers Eyes.

  Democritus cou’d feed his Spleen, and shake

  His sides and shoulders till he felt ‘em ake;

  Tho in his Country Town no Lictors were,

  Nor Rodsnor Axnor Tribune did appear; 50

  Nor all the Foppish Gravity of show,

  Which cunning Magistrates on Crowds bestow:

  What had he done, had he beheld, on high

  Our Prætor seated, in Mock Majesty;

  His Charriot rowling o’re the Dusty place 55

  While, with dumb Pride, and a set formal Face,

  He moves, in the dull Ceremonial track,

  With Jove’s Embroyder’d Coat upon his back:

  A Sute of Hangings had not more opprest

  His Shoulders, than that long, Laborious Vest. 60

  A heavy Gugaw, (call’d a Crown) that spred

  About his Temples, drown’d his narrow Head:

  And wou’d have crush’d it, with the Massy Freight,

  But that a sweating Slave sustain’d the weight:

  A Slave in the same Chariot seen to ride, 65

  To mortifie the mighty Madman’s Pride.

  Add now th’ Imperial Eagle, rais’d on high,

  With Golden Beak (the Mark of Majesty)

  Trumpets before, and on the Left and Right,

  A Cavalcade of Nobles, all in White: 70

  In their own Natures false, and flatt’ring Tribes,

  But made his Friends, by Places and by Bribes.

  In his own Age, Democritus cou’d find

  Sufficient cause to laugh at Humane kind:

  Learn from so great a Wit; a Land of Bogs 75

  With Ditches fenc’d, a Heaven Fat with Fogs,

  May form a Spirit to sway the State;

  And make the Neighb’ring Monarchs fear their Fate.

  He laughs at all the Vulgar Cares and Fears;

  At their vain Triumphs, and their vainer Tears: 80

  An equal Temper in his Mind he found,

  When Fortune flatter’d him, and when she frown’d.

  ’Tis plain from hence that what our Vows request,

  Are hurtful things, or Useless at the best.

  Some ask for Envy’d Pow’r; which publick Hate 85

  Pursues, and hurries headlong to their Fate:

  Down go the Titles; and the Statue Crown’d,

  Is by base Hands in the next River Drown’d.

  The Guiltless Horses, and the Chariot Wheel,

  The same Effects of Vulgar Fury feel: 90

  The Smith prepares his Hammer for the Stroke,

  While the Lung’d Bellows hissing Fire provoke;

  Sejanus, almost first of Roman Names,

  The great Sejanus crackles in the Flames:

  Form’d in the Forge, the Pliant Brass is laid 95

  On Anvils; and of Head and Limbs are made

  Pans, Cans, and Pispots, a whole Kitchin Trade.

  Adorn your Doors with Laurels; an
d a Bull

  Milk white, and large, lead to the Capitol;

  Sejanus with a Rope is drag’d along, 100

  The Sport and Laughter of the giddy Throng!

  Good Lord, they Cry, what Ethiop Lips he has,

  How foul a Snout, and what a hanging Face!

  By Heav’n, I never cou’d endure his sight;

  But say, how came his Monstrous Crimes to Light? 105

  What is the Charge, and who the Evidence

  (The Saviour of the Nation and the Prince?)

  Nothing of this; but our Old Cæsar sent

  A Noisie Letter to his Parliament:

  Nay, Sirs, if Cæsar writ, I ask no more, 110

  He’s Guilty: and the Question’s out of Door.

  How goes the Mob? (for that’s a Mighty thing.)

  When the King’s Trump, the Mob are for the King:

  They follow Fortune, and the Common Cry

  Is still against the Rogue Condemn’d to Dye. 115

  But the same very Mob, that Rascal crowd,

  Had cry’d Sejanus, with a Shout as loud;

  Had his Designs (by Fortune’s favour Blest)

  Succeeded, and the Prince’s Age opprest,

  But long, long since, the Times have chang’d their Face, 120

  The People grown Degenerate and base;

  Not suffer’d now the Freedom of their choice,

  To make their Magistrates, and sell their Voice.

  Our Wise Fore-Fathers, Great by Sea and Land,

  Had once the Pow’r and absolute Command; 125

  All Offices of Trust, themselves dispos’d;

  Rais’d whom they pleas’d, and whom they pleas’d, Depos’d.

  But we, who give our Native Rights away,

  And our Inslav’d Posterity betray,

  Are now reduc’d to beg an Alms, and go 130

  On Holidays to see a Puppet show.

  There was a Damn’d Design, crys one, no doubt;

  For Warrants are already Issued out:

  I met Brutidius in a Mortal fright;

  He’s dipt for certain, and plays least in sight: 135

  I fear the Rage of our offended Prince,

  Who thinks the Senate slack in his defence!

  Come let us haste, our Loyal Zeal to show,

  And spurn the Wretched Corps of Cæsar’s Foe:

  But let our Slaves be present there, lest they 140

  Accuse their Masters, and for Gain betray.

  Such were the Whispers of those jealous Times,

  About Sejanus Punishment, and Crimes.

  Now tell me truly, wou’dst thou change thy Fate

  To be, like him, first Minister of State? 145

  To have thy Levees Crowded with resort

  Of a depending, gaping, servile Court:

  Dispose all Honours of the Sword and Gown,

  Grace with a Nod, and Ruin with a Frown:

  To hold thy Prince in Pupill-Age, and sway 150

  That Monarch, whom the Master’d World obey?

  While he, intent on secret Lusts alone,

  Lives to himself, abandoning the Throne;

  Coopt in a narrow Isle, observing Dreams

  With flattering Wisards, and erecting Schemes! 155

  I well believe, thou wou’d’st be Great as he;

  For every Man’s a Fool to that Degree;

  All wish the dire Prerogative to kill;

  Ev’n they wou’d have the Pow’r, who want the Will:

  But wou’dst thou have thy Wishes understood, 160

  To take the Bad together with the Good?

  Wou’dst thou not rather choose a small Renown,

  To be the May’r of some poor Paltry Town,

  Bigly to Look, and Barb’rously to speak;

  To pound false Weights, and scanty Measures break? 165

  Then, grant we that Sejanus went astray,

  In ev’ry Wish, and knew not how to pray:

  For he who grasp’d the World’s exhausted Store,

  Yet never had enough, but wish’d for more,

  Rais’d a Top-heavy Tower, of monst’rous height, 170

  Which Mouldr’ing, crush’d him underneath the Weight.

  What did the mighty Pompey’s Fall beget?

  And ruin’d him, who Greater than the Great,

  The stubborn Pride of Roman Nobles broke;

  And bent their Haughty Necks beneath his Yoke? 175

  What else but his immoderate Lust of Pow’r,

  Pray’rs made, and granted in a Luckless Hour?

  For few Usurpers to the Shades descend

  By a dry Death, or with a quiet End.

  The Boy, who scarce has paid his Entrance down 180

  To his proud Pedant, or declin’d a Noun,

  (So small an Elf, that when the days are foul,

  He and his Satchel must be born to School,)

  Yet prays, and hopes, and aims at nothing less,

  To prove a Tully, or Demosthenes: 185

  But both those Orators, so much renown’d,

  In their own Depths of Eloquence were Drown’d:

  The Hand and Head were never lost, of those

  Who dealt in Dogrel, or who punn’d in Prose:

  Fortune foretun’d the dying Notes of Rome: 190

  Till I, thy Consul sole, consol’d thy doom.

  His Fate had crept below the lifted Swords,

  Had all his Malice been to Murther words.

  I rather would be Mævius, Thrash for Rhimes

  Like his, the scorn and scandal of the Times, 195

  Than that Philippique, fatally Divine,

  Which is inscrib’d the Second, should be Mine.

  Nor he, the Wonder of the Grecian throng,

  Who drove them with the Torrent of his Tongue,

  Who shook the Theaters, and sway’d the State 200

  Of Athens, found a more Propitious Fate.

  Whom, born beneath a boding Horoscope,

  His Sire, the Blear-Ey’d Vulcan of a Shop,

  From Mars his Forge, sent to Minerva’s Schools,

  To learn th’ unlucky Art of wheedling Fools. 205

  With Itch of Honour, and Opinion, Vain,

  All things beyond their Native worth we strain:

  The Spoils of War, brought to Feretrian Jove

  An empty Coat of Armour hung above

  The Conquerors Chariot, and in Triumph born, 210

  A Streamer from a boarded Gally torn,

  A Chap-faln Beaver loosely hanging by

  The cloven Helm, an Arch of Victory,

  On whose high Convex sits a Captive Foe,

  And sighing casts a Mournful Look below; 215

  Of ev’ry Nation, each Illustrious Name,

  Such Toys as these have cheated into Fame:

  Exchanging solid Quiet, to obtain

  The Windy satisfaction of the Brain.

  So much the Thirst of Honour Fires the Blood; 220

  So many wou’d be Great, so few be Good.

  For who wou’d Virtue for her self regard,

  Or Wed, without the Portion of Reward?

  Yet this Mad Chace of Fame, by few pursu’d,

  Has drawn Destruction on the Multitude: 225

  This Avarice of Praise in Times to come,

  Those long Inscriptions, crowded on the Tomb,

  Shou’d some Wild Fig-Tree take her Native bent,

  And heave below the gaudy Monument,

  Wou’d crack the Marble Titles, and disperse 230

  The Characters of all the lying Verse.

  For Sepulchres themselves must crumbling fall

  In Times Abyss, the common Grave of all.

  Great Hannibal within the Ballance lay;

  And tell how many Pounds his Ashes weigh; 235

  Whom Affrick was not able to contain,

  Whose length runs Level with th’ Atlantick main,

  And wearies fruitful Nilus, to convey

  His Sun-beat Waters by so long a way;

  W
hich Ethiopia’s double Clime divides, 240

  And Elephants in other Mountains hides.

  Spain first he won, the Pyræneans past,

  And steepy Alps, the Mounds that Nature cast:

  And with Corroding Juices, as he went,

  A passage through the living Rocks he rent. 245

  Then, like a Torrent, rowling from on high,

  He pours his head-long Rage on Italy;

  In three Victorious Battels overrun;

  Yet still uneasie, Cries, There’s nothing done,

  Till, level with the Ground, their Gates are laid; 250

  And Punick Flags on Roman Tow’rs displaid.

  Ask what a Face belong’d to this high Fame;

  His Picture scarcely wou’d deserve a Frame:

  A Sign-Post Dawber wou’d disdain to paint

  The one-Ey’d Heroe on his Elephant. 255

  Now what’s his End, O Charming Glory, say

  What rare fifth Act, to Crown this huffing Play?

  In one deciding Battel overcome,

  He flies, is banisht from his Native home:

  Begs refuge in a Foreign Court, and there 260

  Attends, his mean Petition to prefer;

  Repuls’d by surly Grooms, who wait before

  The sleeping Tyrant’s interdicted Door.

  What wondrous sort of Death has Heav’n design’d,

  Distinguish’d from the Herd of Humane Kind, 265

  For so untam’d, so turbulent a Mind!

  Nor Swords at hand, nor hissing Darts afar,

  Are doom’d t’ Avenge the tedious bloody War,

  But Poyson, drawn through a Rings hollow plate,

  Must finish him; a sucking Infant’s Fate. 270

  Go, climb the rugged Alps, Ambitious fool,

  To please the Boys, and be a Theme at School.

  One World suffis’d not Alexander’s Mind;

  Coop’t up, he seem’d in Earth and Seas confin’d:

  And, strugling, stretch’d his restless Limbs about 275

  The narrow Globe, to find a passage out.

  Yet, enter’d in the Brick-built Town, he try’d

  The Tomb, and found the strait dimensions wide:

  “Death only this Mysterious Truth unfolds,

  “The mighty Soul, how small a Body holds. 280

  Old Greece a Tale of Athos wou’d make out,

  Cut from the Continent, and Sail’d about;

  Seas hid with Navies, Chariots passing o’re

  The Channel, on a Bridge from shore to shore.

  Rivers, whose depth no sharp beholder sees, 285

  Drunk at an Armies Dinner, to the Lees;

  With a long Legend of Romantick things,

  Which, in his Cups, the Bowsy Poet sings.

  But how did he return, this haughty Brave

  Who whipt the Winds, and made the Sea his Slave? 290