John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series
Page 117
And saw Thee maul’d, appear within the List;
To witness Truth? When I see one so Brave,
The Dead, think I, are risen from the Grave;
And with their long Spade Beards and Matted Hair,
Our honest Ancestors are come to take the Air. 50
Against a Clown, with more security,
A Witness may be brought to swear a Lye,
Than, tho his Evidence be Full and Fair,
To vouch a Truth against a Man of War.
More Benefits remain, and claim’d as Rights, 55
Which are a standing Armics Perquisites.
If any Rogue vexatious Suits advance
Against me for my known Inheritance,
Enter by Violence my Fruitful Grounds,
Or take the Sacred Land-Mark from my Bounds, 60
Those Bounds which with Procession and with Pray’r,
And Offer’d Cakes, have been my Annual care:
Or if my Debtors do not keep their day,
Deny their Hands, and then refuse to pay;
I must with Patience all the Terms attend, 65
Among the common Causes that depend
Till mine is call’d; and that long look’d for day
Is still encumber’d with some new delay:
Perhaps the Cloath of State is only spred,
Some of the Quorum may be Sick a Bed; 70
That Judge is Hot, and do’ffs his Gown, while this
O’re night was Bowsy, and goes out to Piss:
So many Rubs appear, the time is gone
For hearing, and the tedious Suit goes on:
But Buff, and Belt-Men never know these Cares, 75
No Time, nor Trick of Law, their Action Bars:
Their Cause They to an easier Issue put:
They will be heard, or They lug out, and cut.
Another Branch of their Revenue still
Remains beyond their boundless Right to kill, 80
Their Father yet alive, impow’r’d to make a Will.
For, what their Prowess Gain’d, the Law declares
Is to themselves alone, and to their Heirs:
No share of that goes back to the begettor,
But if the Son fights well, and Plunders better, 85
Like stout Coranus, his old shaking Sire
Does a Remembrance in his Will desire:
Inquisitive of Fights, and longs in vain
To find him in the Number of the Slain:
But still he lives, and rising by the War, 90
Enjoyes his Gains, and has enough to spare:
For ’tis a Noble General’s prudent part
To cherish Valour, and reward Desert:
Let him be dawb’d with Lace, live High, and Whore;
Sometimes be Lowzy, but be never Poor.
The End of the Sixteenth Satyr. 95
Aulus Persius Flaccus: Prologue to the First Satyr
Sæpius in Libro memoratur Persius uno
Quam levis in tota Marsus Amazonide.
MART.
Argument of the Prologue to the First Satyr
The Design of the Authour was to conceal his Name and Quality. He liv’d in the dangerous Times of the Tyrant Nero; and aims particularly at him, in most of his Satyrs. For which Reason, though he was a Roman Knight, and of a plentiful Fortune, he would appear in this Prologue but a Beggarly Poet, who Writes for Bread. After this, he breaks into the Business of the first Satyr; which is chiefly to decry the Poetry then in Fashion, and the Impudence of those who were endeavouring to pass their Stuff upon the World.
Prologue to the First Satyr
I NEVER did on cleft Pernassus dream,
Nor taste the sacred Heliconian Stream;
Nor can remember when my Brain inspir’d,
Was, by the Muses, into madness fir’d.
My share in Pale Pyrene I resign;
And claim no part in all the Mighty Nine. 5
Statues, with winding Ivy crown’d, belong
To nobler Poets, for a nobler Song:
Heedless of Verse, and hopeless of the Crown,
Scarce half a Wit, and more than half a Clown,
Before the Shrine I lay my rugged Numbers down. 10
Who taught the Parrot Human Notes to try,
Or with a Voice endu’d the chatt’ring Pye?
’Twas witty Want, fierce Hunger to appease:
Want taught their Masters, and their Masters these.
Let Gain, that gilded Bait, be hung on high, 15
The hungry Witlings have it in their Eye;
Pies, Crows, and Daws, Poetick Presents bring:
You say they squeak; but they will swear they Sing.
Aulus Persius Flaccus: The First Satyr.
In Dialogue betwixt the Poet and his friend or Monitor
Argument of the First Satyr
I need not repeat, that the chief aim of the Authour is against bad Poets, in this Satyr. But I must add, that he includes also bad Orators, who began at that Time (as Petronius in the beginning of his Book tells us) to enervate Manly Eloquence, by Tropes and Figures, ill plac’d, and worse apply’d. Amongst the Poets, Persius covertly strikes at Nero; some of whose Verses he recites with Scorn and Indignation. He also takes notice of the Noblemen and their abominable Poetry, who, in the Luxury of their Fortune, set up for Wits, and Judges. The Satyr is in Dialogue, betwixt the Authour and his Friend or Monitor; who dissuades him from this dangerous attempt of exposing Great Men. But Persius, who is of a free Spirit, and has not forgotten that Rome was once a Commonwealth, breaks through all those difficulties, and boldly Arraigns the false Judgment of the Age in which he Lives. The Reader may observe that our Poet was a Stoick Philosopher; and that all his Moral Sentences, both here and in all the rest of his Satyrs, are drawn from the Dogma’s of that Sect.
The First Satyr
In Dialogue betwixt the Poet and his friend or Monitor.
PERSIUS.
HOW anxious are our Cares, and yet how vain
The bent of our desires!
FRIEND.
Thy Spleen contain:
For none will read thy Satyrs.
PERSIUS.
This to me?
FRIEND.
None; or what’s next to none, but two or three. 5
’Tis hard, I grant.
PERSIUS.
’Tis nothing; I can bear
That paltry Scriblers have the Publick Ear:
That this vast universal Fool, the Town,
Shou’d cry up Labeo’s Stuff, and cry me down. 10
They damn themselves; nor will my Muse descend
To clap with such, who Fools and Knaves commend:
Their Smiles and Censures are to me the same:
I care not what they praise, or what they blame.
In full Assemblies let the Crowd prevail: 15
I weigh no Merit by the common Scale.
The Conscience is the Test of ev’ry Mind;
Seek not thy self, without thy self, to find.
But where’s that Roman? — Somewhat I wou’d say,
But Fear; — let Fear, for once, to Truth give way. 20
Truth lends the Stoick Courage: when I look
On Humane Acts, and read in Nature’s Book,
From the first Pastimes of our Infant Age,
To elder Cares, and Man’s severer Page;
When stern as Tutors, and as Uncles hard, 25
We lash the Pupil, and defraud the Ward:
Then, then I say, — or wou’d say, if I durst —
But thus provok’d, I must speak out, or burst.
FRIEND.
Once more forbear.
PERSIUS.
I cannot rule my Spleen: 30
My scorn Rebels, and tickles me within.
First, to begin at Home, our Authors write
In lonely Rooms, secur’d from publick sight;
Whether in Prose, or Verse, ’tis all the same:
The Prose is Fustian, and
the Numbers lame. 35
All Noise, and empty Pomp, a storm of words,
Lab’ring with sound, that little Sence affords.
They Comb, and then they order ev’ry Hair:
A Gown, or White, or Scour’d to whiteness, wear:
A Birth-day Jewel bobbing at their Ear. 40
Next, gargle well their Throats; and thus prepar’d,
They mount, a God’s Name, to be seen and heard,
From their high Scaffold, with a Trumpet Cheek,
And Ogling all their Audience e’re they speak.
The nauseous Nobles, ev’n the Chief of Rome, 45
With gaping Mouths to these Rehearsals come,
And pant with Pleasure, when some lusty line
The Marrow pierces, and invades the Chine.
At open fulsom Bawdry they rejoice,
And slimy Jests applaud with broken Voice. 50
Base Prostitute, thus dost thou gain thy Bread?
Thus dost thou feed their Ears, and thus art fed?
At his own filthy stuff he grins and brays:
And gives the sign where he expects their praise.
Why have I Learn’d, say’st thou, if thus confin’d, 55
I choak the Noble Vigour of my Mind?
Know, my wild Fig-Tree, which in Rocks is bred,
Will split the Quarry, and shoot out the Head.
Fine Fruits of Learning! Old Ambitious Fool,
Dar’st thou apply that Adage of the School; 60
As if ’tis nothing worth that lies conceal’d,
And Science is not Science till Reveal’d?
Oh, but ’tis Brave to be Admir’d, to see
The Crowd, with pointing Fingers, cry, That’s he:
That’s he, whose wondrous Poem is become 65
A Lecture for the Noble Youth of Rome!
Who, by their Fathers, is at Feasts Renown’d;
And often quoted, when the Bowls go round.
Full gorg’d and flush’d, they wantonly Rehearse;
And add to Wine the Luxury of Verse. 70
One, clad in Purple, not to lose his time,
Eats, and recites some lamentable Rhime:
Some Senceless Phyllis, in a broken Note,
Snuffling at Nose, or croaking in his Throat:
Then Graciously the mellow Audience Nod: 75
Is not th’ Immortal Authour made a God?
Are not his Manes blest, such Praise to have?
Lies not the Turf more lightly on his Grave?
And Roses (while his lowd Applause they Sing)
Stand ready from his Sepulcher to spring? 80
All these, you cry, but light Objections are;
Meer Malice, and you drive the Jest too far.
For does there Breathe a Man, who can reject
A general Fame, and his own Lines neglect?
In Cedar Tablets worthy to appear, 85
That need not Fish, or Franckincense to fear?
Thou, whom I make the adverse part to bear,
Be answer’d thus: If I, by chance, succeed
In what I Write, (and that’s a chance indeed;)
Know, I am not so stupid, or so hard, 90
Not to feel Praise, or Fame’s deserv’d Reward:
But this I cannot grant, that thy Applause
Is my Works ultimate, or only Cause.
Prudence can ne’re propose so mean a prize;
For mark what Vanity within it lies. 95
Like Labeo’s Iliads, in whose Verse is found
Nothing but trifling care, and empty sound:
Such little Elegies as Nobles Write,
Who wou’d be poets, in Apollo’s spight.
Them and their woful Works the Muse defies: 100
Products of Citron Beds and Golden Canopies.
To give thee all thy due, thou hast the Heart
To make a Supper, with a fine dessert;
And to thy threed-bare Friend, a cast old Sute impart.
Thus Brib’d, thou thus bespeak’st him, Tell me Friend 105
(For I love Truth, nor can plain Speech offend,)
What says the World of me and of my Muse?
The Poor dare nothing tell but flatt’ring News:
But shall I speak? thy Verse is wretched Rhyme;
And all thy Labours are but loss of time. 110
Thy strutting Belly swells, thy Paunch is high;
Thou Writ’st not, but thou Pissest Poetry.
All Authours to their own defects are blind;
Hadst thou but, Janus like, a Face behind,
To see the people, what splay-Mouths they make; 115
To mark their Fingers, pointed at thy back:
Their Tongues loll’d out, a foot beyond the pitch,
When most athirst, of an Apulian Bitch:
But Noble Scriblers are with Flatt’ry fed;
For none dare find their faults, who Eat their Bread. 120
To pass the Poets of Patrician Blood,
What is’t the common Reader takes for good?
The Verse in fashion is, when Numbers flow,
Soft without Sence, and without Spirit slow:
So smooth and equal, that no sight can find 125
The Rivet, where the polish’d piece was join’d.
So even all, with such a steady view,
As if he shut one Eye to level true.
Whether the Vulgar Vice his Satyr stings,
The Peoples Riots, or the Rage of Kings, 130
The gentle Poet is alike in all;
His Reader hopes no rise, and fears no fall.
FRIEND.
Hourly we see some Raw Pin-feather’d thing
Attempt to mount, and Fights, and Heroes sing;
Who, for false quantities, was whipt at School 135
But t’ other day, and breaking Grammar Rule,
Whose trivial Art was never try’d, above
The bare description of a Native Grove:
Who knows not how to praise the Country store,
The Feasts, the Baskets, nor the fatted Bore; 140
Nor paint the flowry Fields, that paint themselves before.
Where Romulus was Bred, and Quintius Born,
Whose shining Plough-share was in Furrows worn,
Met by his trembling Wife, returning Home,
And Rustically Joy’d, as Chief of Rome: 145
She wip’d the Sweat from the Dictator’s Brow;
And o’re his Back, his Robe did rudely throw;
The Lictors bore, in State, their Lord’s Triumphant Plough.
Some love to hear the Fustian Poet roar;
And some on Antiquated Authours pore: 150
Rummage for Sense; and think those only good
Who labour most, and least are understood.
When thou shalt see the Blear-Ey’d Fathers teach
Their Sons, this harsh and mouldy sort of Speech;
Or others new affected ways to try, 155
Of wanton smoothness, Female Poetry;
One would enquire, from whence this motley Stile
Did first our Roman Purity defile:
For our Old Dotards cannot keep their Seat;
But leap and catch at all that’s obsolete. 160
Others, by Foolish Ostentation led,
When call’d before the Bar, to save their Head,
Bring trifling Tropes, instead of solid Sence:
And mind their Figures more than their Defence,
Are pleas’d to hear their thick-scull’d Judges cry, 165
Well mov’d, oh finely said, and decently!
Theft (says th’ Accuser) to thy Charge I lay,
O Pedius! What does gentle Pedius say?
Studious to please the Genius of the Times,
With Periods, Points, and Tropes, he slurs his Crimes: 170
“He Robb’d not, but he Borrow’d from the Poor;
“And took but with intention to restore.
He lards with flourishes his long Haran
gue;
’Tis fine, say’st thou; What, to be Prais’d and Hang?
Effeminate Roman, shall such Stuff prevail 175
To tickle thee, and make thee wag thy Tail?
Say, shou’d a Shipwrack’d Saylor sing his woe,
Wou’dst thou be mov’d to pity, or bestow
An Alms? What’s more prepost’rous than to see
A Merry Beggar? Mirth in misery? 180
PERSIUS.
He seems a Trap, for Charity, to lay:
And cons, by Night, his Lesson for the day.
FRIEND.
But to raw Numbers, and unfinished Verse,
Sweet sound is added now, to make it Terse:
“’Tis tagg’d with Rhyme, like Berecynthian Atys, 185
“The mid part chimes with Art, which never flat is.
“The Dolphin brave, that cut the liquid Wave,
“Or He who in his line, can chine the long-rib’d Apennine.
PERSIUS.
All this is Dogrel Stuff:
FRIEND.
What if I bring 190
A Nobler Verse? Arms and the Man I sing.
PERSIUS.
Why name you Virgil with such Fops as these?
He’s truly great, and must for ever please.
Not fierce, but awful is his Manly Page;
Bold is his Strength, but sober is his Rage. 195
FRIEND.
What Poems think you soft? and to be read
With languishing regards, and bending Head?
PERSIUS.
“Their crooked Horns the Mimallontan Crew
“With Blasts inspir’d; and Bassaris who slew
“The scornful Calf, with Sword advanc’d on high, 200
“Made from his Neck his haughty Head to fly.
“And Mænas, when with Ivy-bridles bound,
“She led the spotted Lynx, then Evion rung around;
“Evion from Woods and Floods repairing Ecchos sound.
Cou’d such rude Lines a Roman Mouth become, 205
Were any Manly Greatness left in Rome?
Mænas and Atys in the Mouth were bred;
And never hatch’d within the lab’ring Head:
No Blood, from bitten Nails, those Poems drew:
But churn’d, like Spettle, from the Lips they flew. 210
FRIEND.
’Tis Fustian all; ’tis execrably bad:
But if they will be Fools, must you be mad?
Your Satyrs, let me tell you, are too fierce;
The Great will never bear so blunt a Verse.
Their Doors are barr’d against a bitter flout: 215
Snarl, if you please, but you shall snarl without.
Expect such Pay as railing Rhymes deserve,
Y’are in a very hopeful way to sterve.
PERSIUS.