FOOTNOTES:

[142] Milo, of Crotona; who, for a trial of his strength, going to rend an oak, perished in the attempt; for his arms were caught in the trunk of it, and he was devoured by wild beasts.

[143] Sejanus was Tiberius's first favourite; and, while he continued so, had the highest marks of honour bestowed on him. Statues and triumphal chariots were every where erected to him. But, as soon as he fell into disgrace with the emperor, these were all immediately dismounted; and the senate and common people insulted over him as meanly as they had fawned on him before.

[144] The island of Caprea, which lies about a league out at sea from the Campanian shore, was the scene of Tiberius's pleasures in the latter part of his reign. There he lived, for some years, with diviners, soothsayers, and worse company; and from thence dispatched all his orders to the senate.

[145] Julius Cæsar, who got the better of Pompey, that was styled, The Great.

[146] Demosthenes and Tully both died for their oratory; Demosthenes gave himself poison, to avoid being carried to Antipater, one of Alexander's captains, who had then made himself master of Athens. Tully was murdered by M. Antony's order, in return for those invectives he made against him.

[147] The Latin of this couplet is a famous verse of Tully's, in which he sets out the happiness of his own consulship, famous for the vanity and the ill poetry of it; for Tully, as he had a good deal of the one, so he had no great share of the other.

[148] The orations of Tully against M. Antony were styled by him "Philippics," in imitation of Demosthenes; who had given that name before to those he made against Philip of Macedon.

[149] This is a mock account of a Roman triumph.

[150] Babylon, where Alexander died.

[151] Xerxes is represented in history after a very romantic manner: affecting fame beyond measure, and doing the most extravagant things to compass it. Mount Athos made a prodigious promontory in the Ægean Sea; he is said to have cut a channel through it, and to have sailed round it. He made a bridge of boats over the Hellespont, where it was three miles broad; and ordered a whipping for the winds and seas, because they had once crossed his designs; as we have a very solemn account of it in Herodotus. But, after all these vain boasts, he was shamefully beaten by Themistocles at Salamis; and returned home, leaving most of his fleet behind him.

[152] Mercury, who was a god of the lowest size, and employed always in errands between heaven and hell, and mortals used him accordingly; for his statues were anciently placed where roads met, with directions on the fingers of them, pointing out the several ways to travellers.

[153] Nestor, king of Pylus; who was three hundred years old, according to Homer's account; at least as he is understood by his expositors.

[154] The ancients counted by their fingers; their left hands served them till they came up to an hundred; after that they used their right, to express all greater numbers.

[155] The Fates were three sisters, who had all some peculiar business assigned them by the poets, in relation to the lives of men. The first held the distaff, the second spun the thread, and the third cut it.

[156] Whilst Troy was sacked by the Greeks, old king Priam is said to have buckled on his armour to oppose them; which he had no sooner done, but he was met by Pyrrhus, and slain before the altar of Jupiter, in his own palace; as we have the story finely told in Virgil's second Æneid.

[157] Hecuba, his queen, escaped the swords of the Grecians, and outlived him. It seems, she behaved herself so fiercely and uneasily to her husband's murderers, while she lived, that the poets thought fit to turn her into a bitch when she died.

[158] Mithridates, after he had disputed the empire of the world for forty years together, with the Romans, was at last deprived of life and empire by Pompey the Great.

[159] Crœsus, in the midst of his prosperity, making his boast to Solon, how happy he was, received this answer from the wise man,—that no one could pronounce himself happy, till he saw what his end should be. The truth of this Crœsus found, when he was put in chains by Cyrus, and condemned to die.

[160] Pompey, in the midst of his glory, fell into a dangerous fit of sickness, at Naples. A great many cities then made public supplications for him. He recovered; was beaten at Pharsalia; fled to Ptolemy, king of Egypt; and, instead of receiving protection at his court, had his head struck off by his order, to please Cæsar.

[161] Cethegus was one that conspired with Catiline, and was put to death by the senate.

[162] Sergius Catiline died fighting.

[163] Virginia was killed by her own father, to prevent her being exposed to the lust of Appius Claudius, who had ill designs upon her. The story at large is in Livy's third book; and it is a remarkable one, as it gave occasion to the putting down the power of the Decemviri, of whom Appius was one.

[164] Hippolytus, the son of Theseus, was loved by his mother-in-law, Phædria; but he not complying with her, she procured his death.

[165] Bellerophon, the son of King Glaucus, residing some time at the court of Pætus, king of the Argives, the queen, Sthenobæa, fell in love with him; but he refusing her, she turned the accusation upon him, and he narrowly escaped Pætus's vengeance.

[166] Messalina, wife to the emperor Claudius, infamous for her lewdness. She set her eyes upon C. Silius, a fine youth; forced him to quit his own wife, and marry her, with all the formalities of a wedding, whilst Claudius Cæsar was sacrificing at Hostia. Upon his return, he put both Silius and her to death.

THE
SIXTEENTH SATIRE
OF
JUVENAL.

THE ARGUMENT.

The Poet in this satire proves, that the condition of a soldier is much better than that of a countryman; first, because a countryman, however affronted, provoked, and struck himself, dares not strike a soldier, who is only to be judged by a court-martial; and, by the law of Camillus, which obliges him not to quarrel without the trenches, he is also assured to have a speedy hearing, and quick dispatch; whereas, the townsman, or peasant, is delayed in his suit by frivolous pretences, and not sure of justice when he is heard in the court. The soldier is also privileged to make a will, and to give away his estate, which he got in war, to whom he pleases, without consideration of parentage, or relations, which is denied to all other Romans. This satire was written by Juvenal, when he was a commander in Egypt: it is certainly his, though I think it not finished. And if it be well observed, you will find he intended an invective against a standing army.

What vast prerogatives, my Gallus, are
 Accruing to the mighty man of war!
 For if into a lucky camp I light, }
 Though raw in arms, and yet afraid to fight, }
 Befriend me my good stars, and all goes right. }
 One happy hour is to a soldier better,
 Than mother Juno's[167] recommending letter,
 Or Venus, when to Mars she would prefer
 My suit, and own the kindness done to her.[168]
 See what our common privileges are;
 As, first, no saucy citizen shall dare
 To strike a soldier, nor, when struck, resent
 The wrong, for fear of farther punishment.
 Not though his teeth are beaten out, his eyes
 Hang by a string, in bumps his forehead rise,
 Shall he presume to mention his disgrace,
 Or beg amends for his demolished face.
 A booted judge shall sit to try his cause,
 Not by the statute, but by martial laws;
 Which old Camillus ordered, to confine
 The brawls of soldiers to the trench and line:
 A wise provision; and from thence 'tis clear,
 That officers a soldier's cause should hear;
 And taking cognizance of wrongs received,
 An honest man may hope to be relieved.
 So far 'tis well; but with a general cry,
 The regiment will rise in mutiny,
 The freedom of their fellow-rogue demand,
 And, if refused, will threaten to disband.
 Withdraw thy action, and depart in peace,
 The remedy is worse than the disease.
 This cause is worthy him, who in the hall
 Would for his fee, and for his client, bawl:[169]
 But would'st thou, friend, who hast two legs alone,
 (Which, heaven be praised, thou yet may'st call thy own,)
 Would'st thou to run the gauntlet these expose
 To a whole company of hob-nailed shoes?[170]
 Sure the good-breeding of wise citizens
 Should teach them more good-nature to their shins.
 Besides, whom canst thou think so much thy friend,
 Who dares appear thy business to defend?
 Dry up thy tears, and pocket up the abuse, }
 Nor put thy friend to make a bad excuse; }
 The judge cries out, "Your evidence produce." }
 Will he, who saw the soldier's mutton-fist,
 And saw thee mauled, 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.
 Against a clown, with more security,
 A witness may be brought to swear a lie,
 Than, though his evidence be full and fair,
 To vouch a truth against a man of war.
 More benefits remain, and claimed as rights,
 Which are a standing army's 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[171] from my bounds,
 Those bounds, which with procession and with prayer,
 And offered 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,
 Among the common causes that depend,
 Till mine is called; and that long-looked-for day
 Is still encumbered with some new delay;
 Perhaps the cloth of state is only spread,[172]
 Some of the quorum may be sick a-bed;
 That judge is hot, and doffs his gown, while this
 O'er 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 buft and beltmen never know these cares,
 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,— }
 Their father yet alive, impowered to make a will.[173]}
 For what their prowess gained, the law declares
 Is to themselves alone, and to their heirs:
 No share of that goes back to the begetter,
 But if the son fights well, and plunders better,
 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,
 Enjoys his gains, and has enough to spare;
 For 'tis a noble general's prudent part
 To cherish valour, and reward desert;
 Let him be daub'd with lace, live high, and whore;
 Sometimes be lousy, but be never poor.

FOOTNOTES:

[167] Juno was mother to Mars, the god of war; Venus was his mistress.

[168] Camillus, (who being first banished by his ungrateful countrymen the Romans, afterwards returned, and freed them from the Gauls,) made a law, which prohibited the soldiers from quarrelling without the camp, lest upon that pretence they might happen to be absent when they ought to be on duty.

[169] The poet names a Modenese lawyer, whom he calls Vagellius, who was so impudent, that he would plead any cause, right or wrong, without shame or fear.

[170] The Roman soldiers wore plates of iron under their shoes, or stuck them with nails, as countrymen do now.

[171] Land-marks were used by the Romans, almost in the same manner as now; and as we go once a year in procession about the bounds of parishes, and renew them, so they offered cakes upon the stone, or land-mark.

[172] The courts of judicature were hung, and spread, as with us; but spread only before the hundred judges were to sit, and judge public causes, which were called by lot.

[173] The Roman soldiers had the privilege of making a will, in their father's life-time, of what they had purchased in the wars, as being no part of their patrimony. By this will, they had power of excluding their own parents, and giving the estate so gotten to whom they pleased: Therefore, says the poet, Coranus, (a soldier contemporary with Juvenal, who had raised his fortune by the wars,) was courted by his own father, to make him his heir.

TRANSLATIONS
FROM
PERSIUS.

THE
FIRST SATIRE
OF
PERSIUS.

ARGUMENT OF THE PROLOGUE

TO THE FIRST SATIRE.

The design of the author was to conceal his name and quality. He lived in the dangerous times of the tyrant Nero, and aims particularly at him in most of his Satires. 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 Satire; 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 SATIRE.

I never did on cleft Parnassus dream,
 Nor taste the sacred Heliconian stream;[174]
 Nor can remember when my brain, inspired,
 Was by the Muses into madness fired.
 My share in pale Pyrene[175] I resign,
 And claim no part in all the mighty Nine.
 Statues, with winding ivy crowned,[176] 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[177] I lay my rugged numbers down.}
 Who taught the parrot human notes to try,
 Or with a voice endued the chattering 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,
 The hungry witlings have it in their eye;
 Pyes, crows, and daws, poetic presents bring;
 You say they squeak, but they will swear they sing.

THE
FIRST SATIRE.
IN DIALOGUE BETWIXT
THE POET AND HIS FRIEND, OR MONITOR.

ARGUMENT.

I need not repeat, that the chief aim of the author is against bad poets in this Satire. 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 placed, and worse applied. 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 fortunes, set up for wits and judges. The Satire is in dialogue betwixt the author, 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 Stoic philosopher; and that all his moral sentences, both here and in all the rest of his Satires, are drawn from the dogmas of that sect.

Persius.

How anxious are our cares, and yet how vain
 The bent of our desires!

Friend.

Thy spleen contain;
 For none will read thy satires.?

Persius.

This to me?

Friend.

None, or, what's next to none, but two or three.
 'Tis hard, I grant.

Persius.

'Tis nothing; I can bear,
 That paltry scribblers have the public ear;
 That this vast universal fool, the town,
 Should cry up Labeo's stuff,[178] and cry me down.
 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;
 I weigh no merit by the common scale.
 The conscience is the test of every mind;
 "Seek not thyself, without thyself, to find."
 But where's that Roman——Somewhat I would say,
 But fear——let fear, for once, to truth give way.
 Truth lends the Stoic courage; when I look
 On human 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,
 We lash the pupil, and defraud the ward,
 Then, then I say—or would say, if I durst—
 But, thus provoked, I must speak out, or burst.

Friend.

Once more forbear.

Persius.

I cannot rule my spleen;
 My scorn rebels, and tickles me within.
 First, to begin at home:—Our authors write
 In lonely rooms, secured from public sight;
 Whether in prose, or verse, 'tis all the same,
 The prose is fustian, and the numbers lame;
 All noise, and empty pomp, a storm of words,
 Labouring with sound, that little sense affords.
 They comb, and then they order every hair; }
 A gown, or white, or scoured to whiteness, wear, }
 A birth-day jewel bobbing at their ear;[179] }
 Next, gargle well their throats; and, thus prepared,
 They mount, a God's name, to be seen and heard;
 From their high scaffold, with a trumpet cheek,
 And ogling all their audience ere they speak.
 The nauseous nobles, even the chief of Rome,
 With gaping mouths to these rehearsals come,
 And pant with pleasure, when some lusty line
 The marrow pierces, and invades the chine;
 At open fulsome bawdry they rejoice,
 And slimy jests applaud with broken voice.
 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 learned, sayst thou, if thus confined,
 I choke 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.[180]
 Fine fruits of learning! old ambitious fool,
 Darest thou apply that adage of the school,
 As if 'tis nothing worth that lies concealed,
 And "science is not science till revealed?"
 Oh, but 'tis brave to be admired, to see
 The crowd, with pointing fingers, cry,—That's he;
 That's he, whose wonderous poem is become
 A lecture for the noble youth of Rome!
 Who, by their fathers, is at feasts renowned,
 And often quoted when the bowls go round.
 Full gorged and flushed, they wantonly rehearse,
 And add to wine the luxury of verse.
 One, clad in purple, not to lose his time,
 Eats and recites some lamentable rhyme;
 Some senseless Phillis, in a broken note,
 Snuffling at nose, and croaking in his throat.
 Then graciously the mellow audience nod;
 Is not the immortal author 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 loud applause they sing)
 Stand ready from his sepulchre to spring?
 All these, you cry, but light objections are,
 Mere 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[181] worthy to appear, }
 That need not fish, or frankincense, to fear? }
 Thou, whom I make the adverse part to bear, }
 Be answered 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,
 Not to feel praise, or fame's deserved reward;
 But this I cannot grant, that thy applause
 Is my work's ultimate, or only cause.
 Prudence can ne'er propose so mean a prize;
 For mark what vanity within it lies.
 Like Labeo's Iliads, in whose verse is found
 Nothing but trifling care, and empty sound;
 Such little elegies as nobles write,
 Who would be poets, in Apollo's spite.
 Them and their woeful works the Muse defies;
 Products of citron beds,[182] and golden canopies.
 To give thee all thy due, thou hast the heart }
 To make a supper, with a fine desert, }
 And to thy thread-bare friend a cast old suit impart. }
 Thus bribed, thou thus bespeak'st him—Tell me, friend,
 (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 flattering news;
 But shall I speak? Thy verse is wretched rhyme,
 And all thy labours are but loss of time.
 Thy strutting belly swells, thy paunch is high;
 Thou writ'st not, but thou pissest poetry.
 All authors to their own defects are blind;
 Hadst thou but, Janus-like,[183] a face behind,
 To see the people, what splay-mouths they make;
 To mark their fingers, pointed at thy back;
 Their tongues lolled out, a foot beyond the pitch,
 When most athirst, of an Apulian bitch:
 But noble scribblers are with flattery fed,
 For none dare find their faults, who eat their bread.
 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 sense, and without spirit slow;
 So smooth and equal, that no sight can find
 The rivet, where the polished piece was joined;
 So even all, with such a steady view,
 As if he shut one eye to level true.
 Whether the vulgar vice his satire stings,
 The people's riots, or the rage of kings,
 The gentle poet is alike in all;
 His reader hopes no rise, and fears no fall.

Friend.

Hourly we see some raw pin-feathered thing
 Attempt to mount, and fights and heroes sing;
 Who for false quantities was whipt at school
 But t'other day, and breaking grammar-rule;
 Whose trivial art was never tried above
 The bare description of a native grove;
 Who knows not how to praise the country store, }
 The feasts, the baskets, nor the fatted boar, }
 Nor paint the flowery fields that paint themselves before; }
 Where Romulus was bred, and Quintius born,[184]
 Whose shining plough-share was in furrows worn,
 Met by his trembling wife returning home,
 And rustically joyed, as chief of Rome:
 She wiped the sweat from the Dictator's brow, }
 And o'er 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 authors pore;
 Rummage for sense, and think those only good
 Who labour most, and least are understood.
 When thou shalt see the blear-eyed fathers teach
 Their sons this harsh and mouldy sort of speech,
 Or others new affected ways to try,
 Of wanton smoothness, female poetry;
 One would enquire from whence this motley style
 Did first our Roman purity defile.
 For our old dotards cannot keep their seat,
 But leap and catch at all that's obsolete.
 Others, by foolish ostentation led,
 When called before the bar, to save their head,
 Bring trifling tropes, instead of solid sense,
 And mind their figures more than their defence;
 Are pleased to hear their thick-skulled judges cry,
 Well moved, oh finely said, and decently!
 Theft (says the 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,[185] he slurs his crimes:
 "He robbed not, but he borrowed from the poor,
 And took but with intention to restore."
 He lards with flourishes his long harangue;
 'Tis fine, say'st thou;—what, to be praised, and hang?
 Effeminate Roman, shall such stuff prevail
 To tickle thee, and make thee wag thy tail?
 Say, should a shipwrecked sailor sing his woe,
 Wouldst thou be moved to pity, or bestow
 An alms? What's more preposterous than to see
 A merry beggar? Mirth in misery?

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 tagged with rhyme, like Berecynthian Atys,
 The mid-part chimes with art, which never flat is.[186]
 The dolphin brave, that cuts the liquid wave,
 Or he who in his line can chine the long-ribbed Appennine."

Persius.

All this is doggrel stuff.

Friend.

What if I bring
 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 aweful, is his manly page;
 Bold is his strength, but sober is his rage.

Friend.

What poems think you soft, and to be read
 With languishing regards, and bending head?

Persius.

"Their crooked horns the Mimallonian crew
 With blasts inspired;[187] and Bassaris, who slew
 The scornful calf, with sword advanced on high,
 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 echo's sound." }
 Could such rude lines a Roman mouth become,
 Were any manly greatness left in Rome?
 Mænas and Atys[188] in the mouth were bred,
 And never hatched within the labouring head;
 No blood from bitten nails those poems drew,
 But churned, like spittle, from the lips they flew.

Friend.