by John Dryden
Rather than so, uncensur’d let ‘em be
All, all is admirably well, for me. 220
My harmless Rhyme shall scape the dire disgrace
Of Common-shores, and ev’ry pissing-place.
Two painted Serpents shall, on high, appear;
’Tis Holy Ground; you must not Urine here.
This shall be writ to fright the Fry away, 225
Who draw their little Bawbles, when they play.
Yet old Lucilius never fear’d the times,
But lash’d the City, and dissected Crimes.
Mutius and Lupus both by Name he brought;
He mouth’d em, and betwixt his Grinders caught. 230
Unlike in method, with conceal’d design,
Did crafty Horace his low Numbers joyn:
And, with a sly insinuating Grace,
Laugh’d at his Friend, and look’d him in the Face:
Would raise a Blush, where secret Vice he found; 235
And tickle, while he gently prob’d the Wound.
With seeming Innocence the Crowd beguil’d;
But made the desperate Passes, when he smil’d.
Could he do this, and is my Muse controll’d
By Servile Awe? Born free, and not be bold? 240
At least, I’ll dig a hole within the Ground;
And to the trusty Earth commit the sound
The Reeds shall tell you what the poet Fears
King Midas has a Snout, and Asses Ears
This mean conceit, this darling Mystery, 245
Which thou think’st nothing, Friend, thou shalt not buy,
Nor will I change, for all the flashy Wit,
That flatt’ring Labeo in his Iliads writ.
Thou, if there be a thou, in this base Town
Who dares, with angry Eupolis, to frown 250
He, who, with bold Cratinus, is inspir’d
With Zeal, and equal Indignation fir’d;
Who, at enormous Villany, turns pale,
And steers against it with a full-blown Sail
Like Aristophanes; let him but smile 255
On this my honest Work, tho writ i homely Stile:
And if two Lines or three in all the Vein
Appear less drossy, read those Lines again
May they perform their Author’s just Intent,
Glow in thy Ears, and in thy Breast ferment. 260
But from the reading of my Book and me,
Be far ye Foes of Virtuous Poverty:
Who Fortune’s fault upon the Poor can throw;
Point at the tatter’d Coat, and ragged Shooe:
Lay Nature’s failings to their Charge, and jeer 265
The dim week Eye-sight, when the Mind is clear.
When thou thy self, thus insolent in State
Art but, perhaps, some Country Magistrate;
Whose Pow’r extends no farther than to speak
Big on the Bench, and scanty Weights to break. 270
Him, also, for my Censor I disdain,
Who thinks all Science, as all Virtue vain;
Who counts Geometry, and Numbers, Toys;
And with his Foot the Sacred Dust destroys:
Whose Pleasure is to see a Strumpet tear 275
A Cynicks Beard, and lug him by the [Greek];
Such, all the Morning, to the Pleadings run;
But when the Bus’ness of the Day is done,
On Dice, and Drink, and Drabs, they spend their Afternoon.
Aulus Persius Flaccus: The Second Satyr.
Dedicated to his friend Plotius Macrinus, on his Birth-day
THE ARGUMENT
This Satyr contains a most Grave, and Philosophical Argument, concerning Prayers and Wishes. Undoubtedly it gave occasion to Juvenal’s Tenth Satyr; And both of them had their Original from one of Plato’s dialogues, called the second Alcibiades. Our Author has induc’d it with great mastery of Art, by taking his rise from the Birth-day of his Friend; on which occasions, Prayers were made, and sacrifices offer’d by the Native. Persius commending the Purity of his Friend’s Vows, descends to the Impious and Immoral Requests of others. The Satyr is divided into three parts. The first is the Exordium to Macrinus, which the Poet confines within the compass of four Verses. The second relates to the matter of the Prayers and Vows, and an enumeration of those things, wherein Men commonly Sinn’d against right Reason, and Offended in their Requests. The Third part consists in shewing the repugnancies of those Prayers and Wishes, to those of other Men, and inconsistencies, with themselves. He shews the Original of these Vows, and sharply inveighs against them: and Lastly, not only corrects the false Opinion of Mankind concerning them, but gives the True Doctrine of all Addresses made to Heaven, and how they may be made acceptable to the Pow’rs above, in excellent Precepts, and more worthy of a Christian than a Heathen.
LET this auspicious Morning be exprest
With a white Stone, distinguish’d from the rest:
White as thy Fame, and as thy Honour clear;
And let new Joys attend on thy new added year.
Indulge thy Genius, and o’reflow thy Soul, 5
Till thy Wit sparkle, like the chearful Bowl.
Pray; for thy Pray’rs the Test of Heav’n will bear;
Nor need’st thou take the Gods aside, to hear:
While others, ev’n the Mighty Men of Rome,
Big swell’d with Mischief, to the Temples come; 10
And in low Murmurs, and with costly Smoak,
Heav’ns Help, to prosper their black Vows, invoke.
So boldly to the Gods Mankind reveal,
What from each other they, for shame, conceal.
Give me Good Fame, ye Pow’rs, and make me Just: 15
Thus much the Rogue to Publick Ears will trust:
In private then: — When wilt thou, mighty Jove,
My Wealthy Uncle from this World remove?
Or — O thou Thund’rer’s son, great Hercules,
That once thy bounteous Deity wou’d please 20
To guide my Rake, upon the chinking sound
Of some vast Treasure, hidden underground!
O were my Pupil fairly knock’d o’ th’ head;
I should possess th’ Estate, if he were dead!
He’s so far gone with Rickets, and with th’ Evil, 25
That one small Dose wou’d send him to the Devil.
This is my Neighbour Nerius his third Spouse,
Of whom in happy time he rids his House.
But my Eternal Wife! — Grant Heav’n I may
Survive to see the Fellow of his Day! 30
Thus, that thou may’st the better bring about
Thy Wishes, thou art wickedly devout:
In Tiber ducking thrice, by break of day,
To wash th’ Obscenities of Night away.
But prithee tell me, (’tis a small Request) 35
With what ill thoughts of Jove art thou possest?
Wou’dst thou prefer him to some Man? Suppose
I dip’d among the worst, and Staius chose?
Which of the two wou’d thy wise Head declare
The trustier Tutor to an Orphan Heir? 40
Or, put it thus: — Unfold to Staius, straight,
What to Jove’s Ear thou didst impart of late:
He’ll stare, and, O Good Jupiter! will cry;
Can’st thou indulge him in this Villany?
And think’st thou, Jove himself, with patience, then, 45
Can hear a Pray’r condemn’d by wicked men?
That, void of Care, he lolls supine in state,
And leaves his Bus’ness to be done by Fate?
Because his Thunder splits some burly Tree,
And is not darted at thy House and Thee? 50
Or that his Vengeance falls not at the time,
Just at the Perpetration of thy Crime;
And makes Thee a sad Object of our Eyes,
Fit for Ergenna’s Pray’r and Sacrifice?
What well-fed Off’ring to a
ppease the God, 55
What pow’rful Present to procure a Nod,
Hast thou in store? What Bribe hast thou prepar’d,
To pull him, thus unpunish’d, by the Beard?
Our Superstitions with our life begin:
Th’ Obscene old Grandam, or the next of Kin, 60
The New-born Infant from the Cradle takes,
And first of Spettle a Lustration makes:
Then in the Spawl her Middle Finger dips,
Anoints the Temples, Forehead, and the Lips,
Pretending force of Witchcraft to prevent, 65
By virtue of her nasty Excrement.
Then dandles him with many a mutter’d Pray’r,
That Heav’n wou’d make him some rich Miser’s Heir,
Lucky to Ladies, and, in time, a King,
Which to insure, she adds a length of Navel-string. 70
But no fond Nurse is fit to make a Pray’r:
And Jove, if Jove be wise, will never hear;
Not tho’ she prays in white, with lifted hands:
A Body made of Brass the Crone demands
For her lov’d Nurseling, strung with Nerves of Wire, 75
Tough to the last, and with no toil to tire:
Unconscionable Vows! which when we use,
We teach the Gods, in Reason, to refuse.
Suppose They were indulgent to thy Wish:
Yet the fat Entrails, in the spatious Dish, 80
Wou’d stop the Grant: The very overcare,
And nauseous pomp, wou’d hinder half the Pray’r.
Thou hop’st with Sacrifice of Oxen slain
To compass Wealth, and bribe the God of Gain,
To give thee Flocks and Herds, with large increase; 85
Fool! to expect ‘em from a Bullock’s Grease!
And think’st, that when the fatten’d Flames aspire,
Thou seest th’ accomplishment of thy desire!
Now, now, my bearded Harvest gilds the plain,
The scanty Folds can scarce my Sheep contain, 90
And show’rs of Gold come pouring in amain!
Thus dreams the Wretch, and vainly thus dreams on,
Till his lank Purse declares his Money gone.
Shou’d I present thee with rare figur’d Plate,
Or Gold as rich in Workmanship as Weight; 95
O how thy rising heart wou’d throb and beat,
And thy left side, with trembling pleasure, sweat!
Thou measur’st by thy self the Pow’rs Divine;
Thy Gods are burnish’d Gold, and Silver is their Shrine.
Thy puny Godlings of inferior Race, 100
Whose humble Statues are content with Brass,
Should some of These, in Visions purg’d from fleam,
Foretel Events, or in a Morning Dream;
Ev’n those thou wou’dst in Veneration hold;
And, if not Faces, give ‘em Beards of Gold. 105
The Priests, in Temples, now no longer care
For Saturn’s Brass, or Numa’s Earthen-ware;
Or Vestal Urns, in each Religious Rite:
This wicked Gold has put ‘em all to flight.
O Souls, in whom no heav’nly Fire is found, 110
Fat Minds, and ever groveling on the ground!
We bring our Manners to the blest Abodes,
And think what pleases us, must please the Gods.
Of Oyl and Casia one th’ Ingredients takes,
And, of the Mixture, a rich Ointment makes: 115
Another finds the way to dye in Grain:
And make Calabrian Wool receive the Tyrian Stain:
Or from the Shells their Orient Treasure takes,
Or, for their golden Ore, in Rivers rakes;
Then melts the Mass: All these are Vanities! 120
Yet still some Profit from their Pains may rise:
But tell me, Priest, if I may be so bold,
What are the Gods the better for this Gold?
The Wretch that offers from his wealthy Store
These Presents, bribes the Pow’rs to give him more: 125
As maids to Venus offer Baby-Toys,
To bless the Marriage-Bed with Girls and Boys.
But let us for the Gods a Gift prepare,
Which the Great Man’s great Chargers cannot bear:
A Soul, where Laws both Humane and Divine, 130
In Practice more than Speculation shine:
A genuine Virtue, of a vigorous kind,
Pure in the last recesses of the Mind:
When with such Off’rings to the Gods I come,
A Cake, thus giv’n, is worth a Hecatomb.
The End of the Second Satyr.
Aulus Persius Flaccus: The Third Satyr
ARGUMENT OF THE THIRD SATYR
Our Author has made two Satyrs concerning Study; the First and the Third: the First related to Men; This to Young Students, whom he desir’d to be educated in the Stoick Philosophy: He himself sustains the Person of the Master, or Præceptor, in this admirable Satyr. Where he upbraids the Youth of Sloth, and Negligence in learning. Yet he begins with one Scholar reproaching his Fellow Students with late rising to their Books. After which he takes upon him the other part, of the Teacher. And addressing himself particularly to Young Noblemen, tells them, That, by reason of their High Birth, and the Great Possessions of their Fathers, they are careless of adorning their Minds with Precepts of Moral Philosophy: And withall, inculcates to them the Miseries which will attend them in the whole Course of their Life, if they do not apply themselves betimes to the Knowledge of Virtue, and the End of their Creation, which he pathetically insinuates to them. The Title of this satyr, in some Ancient Manuscripts, was The Reproach of Idleness; tho in others of the Scholiasts ’tis inscribed, Against the Luxury and Vices of the Rich. In both of which the Intention of the Poet is pursued; but principally in the former.
I remember I translated this Satyr, when I was a Kings-Scholar at Westminster School, for a Thursday Nights Exercise; and believe that it, and many other of my Exercises of this nature, in English Verse, are still in the hands of my Learned Master, the Reverend Doctor Busby.
The Third Satyr
IS this thy daily course? The glaring Sun
Breaks in at ev’ry Chink: The Cattle run
To Shades, and Noon-tide Rays of Summer shun.
Yet plung’d in Sloth we lye; and snore supine,
As fill’d with Fumes of undigested Wine. 5
This grave Advice some sober Student bears;
And loudly rings it in his Fellows Ears.
The yawning Youth, scarce half awake, essays
His lazy Limbs and dozy Head to raise:
Then rubs his gummy Eyes, and scrubs his Pate; 10
And cries I thought it had not been so late:
My Cloaths; make haste: why when! if none be near,
He mutters first, and then begins to swear:
And brays aloud, with a more clam’rous note,
Than an Arcadian Ass can stretch his throat. 15
With much ado, his Book before him laid,
And Parchment with the smoother side display’d;
He takes the Papers; lays ‘em down agen;
And, with unwilling Fingers, tries the Pen:
Some peevish quarrel straight he strives to pick, 20
His Quill writes double, or his Ink’s too thick;
Infuse more water; now ’tis grown so thin
It sinks, nor can the Character be seen.
O Wretch, and still more wretched ev’ry day!
Are Mortals born to sleep their lives away? 25
Go back to what thy Infancy began,
Thou who wert never meant to be a Man:
Eat Pap and Spoon-meat; for thy Guwgaws cry:
Be sullen, and refuse the Lullaby.
No more accuse thy Pen: but charge the Crime 30
On Native Sloth, and negligence of time.
Think’st thou thy Master, or thy Friends, to che
at?
Fool, ’tis thy self, and that’s a worse deceit.
Beware the publick Laughter of the Town;
Thou spring’st a Leak already in thy Crown. 35
A flaw is in thy ill-bak’d Vessel found;
’Tis hollow, and returns a jarring sound.
Yet, thy moist Clay is pliant to Command;
Unwrought, and easie to the Potter’s hand:
Now take the Mold; now bend thy Mind to feel 40
The first sharp Motions of the Forming Wheel.
But thou hast Land; a Country Seat, secure
By a just Title; costly Furniture;
A Fuming-Pan thy Lares to appease:
What need of Learning when a Man’s at ease? 45
If this be not enough to swell thy Soul,
Then please thy Pride, and search the Herald’s Roll,
Where thou shalt find thy famous Pedigree
Drawn from the Root of some old Thus-can Tree;
And thou, a Thousand off, a Fool of long Degree; 50
Who, clad in Purple, canst thy Censor greet;
And, loudly, call him Cousin, in the Street.
Such Pageantry be to the People shown;
There boast thy Horse’s Trappings, and thy own:
I know thee to thy Bottom; from within 55
Thy shallow Centre, to thy outmost Skin:
Dost thou not blush to live so like a Beast,
So trim, so dissolute, so loosely drest?
But ’tis in vain: The Wretch is drench’d too deep;
His Soul is stupid, and his Heart asleep; 60
Fatten’d in Vice; so callous, and so gross,
He sins, and sees not; senseless of his Loss.
Down goes the Wretch at once, unskill’d to swim,
Hopeless to bubble up, and reach the Water’s Brim.
Great Father of the Gods, when, for our Crimes, 65
Thou send’st some heavy Judgment on the Times;
Some Tyrant-King, the Terrour of his Age,
The Type, and true Vicegerent of thy Rage;
Thus punish him: Set Virtue in his Sight,
With all her Charms adorn’d; with all her Graces bright: 70
But set her distant, make him pale to see
His Gains out-weigh’d by lost Felicity!
Sicilian Tortures and the Brazen Bull,
Are Emblems, rather than express the Full
Of what he feels: Yet what he fears, is more: 75
The Wretch, who sitting at his plenteous Board,
Look’d up, and view’d on high the pointed Sword
Hang o’er his Head, and hanging by a Twine,
Did with less Dread, and more securely Dine.
Ev’n in his Sleep he starts, and fears the Knife, 80