T. R. Smith, comp. Poetica Erotica: Rare and Curious Amatory Verse. 1921–22.
From The Sixth Satire
By Juvenal (Decimus Juntos Juvenalis) (c. 55127)(To Ursidius Posthumus. Translated by William Gifford) |
YES, I believe that Chastity was known, | |
And prized on earth, while Saturn filled the throne; | |
When rocks a bleak and scanty shelter gave, | |
When sleep and shepherds thronged one common cave, | |
And when the mountain wife her couch bestrewed | 5 |
With skins of beasts, joint tenants of the wood, | |
And reeds, and leaves plucked from the neighbouring tree:— | |
A woman, Cynthia, far unlike to thee, | |
Or thee, weak child of fondness and of fears, | |
Whose eyes a sparrow’s death suffused with tears: | 10 |
But strong, and reaching to her burly brood | |
Her big-swollen breasts, replete with wholesome food, | |
And rougher than her husband, gorged with mast, | |
And frequent belching from the coarse repast. | |
For when the world was new, the race that broke, | 15 |
Unfathered, from the soil or opening oak, | |
Lived most unlike the men of later times, | |
The puling brood of follies and of crimes. | |
Haply some trace of Chastity remained, | |
While Jove, but Jove as yet unbearded, reigned: | 20 |
Before the Greek bound, by another’s head, | |
His doubtful faith; or men, of theft in dread, | |
Had learned their herbs and fruitage to immure, | |
But all was unenclosed, and all secure! | |
At length Astrea, from these confines driven, | 25 |
Regained by slow degrees her native heaven; | |
With her retired her sister in disgust, | |
And left the world to rapine, and to lust. | |
’Tis not a practice, friend, of recent date, | |
But old, established, and inveterate, | 30 |
To climb another’s couch, and boldly slight | |
The sacred Genius of the nuptial rite: | |
All other crimes the Age of Iron curst; | |
But that of Silver saw adulterers first. * * * * * | |
Go then, prepare to bring your mistress home, | 35 |
And crown your doors with garlands, ere she come.— | |
But will one man suffice, methinks, you cry, | |
For all her wants and wishes? Will one eye! | |
And yet there runs, ’tis said, a wondrous tale, | |
Of some pure maid, who lives—in some lone vale. | 40 |
There she may live; but let the phœnix, placed | |
At Gabii or Fidenæ, prove as chaste | |
As at her father’s farm!—Yet who will swear, | |
That naught is done in night and silence there? | |
Time was, when Jupiter and Mars, we’re told, | 45 |
With many a nymph in woods and caves made bold; | |
And still, perhaps, they may not be too old. | |
Survey our public places; see you there | |
One woman worthy of your serious care? | |
See you, through all the crowded benches, one | 50 |
Whom you might take securely for your own?— | |
Lo! while Bathyllus, with his flexile limbs, | |
Acts Leda, and through every posture swims, | |
Tuccia delights to realize the play, | |
And in lascivious trances melts away; | 55 |
While rustic Thymelè, with curious eye, | |
Marks the quick pant, the lingering, deep-drawn sigh, | |
And while her cheeks with burning blushes glow, | |
Learns this—learns all the city matrons know. * * * * * | |
Hippia, who shared a rich patrician’s bed, | 60 |
To Egypt with a gladiator fled, | |
While rank Canopus eyed, with strong disgust, | |
This ranker specimen of Roman lust. | |
Without one pang, the profligate resigned | |
Her husband, sister, sire; gave to the wind | 65 |
Her children’s tears; yea, tore herself away, | |
(To strike you more)—from Paris and the Play! | |
And though, in affluence born, her infant head | |
Had pressed the down of an embroidered bed, | |
She braved the deep, (she long had braved her fame; | 70 |
But this is little—to the courtly dame), | |
And, with undaunted breast, the changes bore | |
Of many a sea, the swelling and the roar. | |
Have they an honest call, such ills to bear? | |
Cold shiverings seize them, and they shrink with fear; | 75 |
But set illicit pleasure in their eye, | |
Onward they rush, and every toil defy! | |
Summoned by duty, to attend her lord, | |
How, cried the lady, can I get on board? | |
How bear the dizzy motion? how the smell? | 80 |
But—when the adulterer calls her, all is well! | |
She roams the deck, with pleasure ever new, | |
Tugs at the ropes, and messes with the crew; | |
But with her husband—O, how changed the case! | |
Sick! sick! she cries, and vomits in his face. * * * * * | 85 |
Start you at wrongs that touch a private name, | |
At Hippia’s lewdness, and Veiento’s shame? | |
Turn to the rivals of the immortal Powers, | |
And mark how like their fortunes are to ours! | |
Claudius had scarce begun his eyes to close, | 90 |
Ere from his pillow Messalina rose | |
(Accustomed long the bed of state to slight | |
For the coarse mattress, and the hood of night); | |
And with one maid, and her dark hair concealed | |
Beneath a yellow tire, a strumpet veiled! | 95 |
She slipt into the stews, unseen, unknown, | |
And hired a cell, yet reeking, for her own. | |
There, flinging off her dress, the imperial whore | |
Stood, with bare breasts and gilded, at the door, | |
And showed, Britannicus, to all who came, | 100 |
The womb that bore thee, in Lycisca’s name! | |
Allured the passers-by with many a wile, | |
And asked her price, and took it, with a smile. | |
And when the hour of business now was spent, | |
And all the trulls dismissed, repining went; | 105 |
Yet what she could, she did; slowly she past, | |
And saw her man, and shut her cell, the last, | |
—Still raging with the fever of desire, | |
Her veins all turgid, and her blood all fire, | |
With joyless pace, the imperial couch she sought, | 110 |
And to her happy spouse (yet slumbering) brought | |
Cheeks rank with sweat, limbs drenched with poisonous dews, | |
The steam of lamps, and odor of the stews! | |
’Twere long to tell what philters they provide, | |
What drugs, to set a son-in-law aside. | 115 |
Women, in judgment weak, in feeling strong, | |
By every gust of passion borne along, | |
Act, in their fits, such crimes, that, to be just, | |
The least pernicious of their sins is lust. * * * * * | |
Some faults, though small, no husband yet can bear: | 120 |
’Tis now the nauseous cant, that none is fair, | |
Unless her thoughts in Attic terms she dress; | |
A mere Cecropian of a Sulmoness! | |
All now is Greek: in Greek their souls they pour, | |
In Greek their fears, hopes, joys;—what would you more? | 125 |
In Greek they clasp their lovers. We allow | |
These fooleries to girls: but thou, O thou, | |
Who tremblest on the verge of eighty-eight, | |
To Greek it still!—’tis now, a day too late. | |
Foh! how it savours of the dregs of lust, | 130 |
When an old hag, whose blandishments disgust, | |
Affects the infant lisp, the girlish squeak, | |
And mumbles out, “My life! My soul!” in Greek! | |
Words, which the secret sheets alone should hear, | |
But which she trumpets in the public ear. | 135 |
And words, indeed, have power—But though she woo | |
In softer strains than e’er Carpophorus knew, | |
Her wrinkles still employ her favourite’s cares; | |
And while she murmurs love, he counts her years! * * * * * | |
To a fond spouse a wife no mercy shows:— | 140 |
Though warmed with equal fires, she mocks his woes, | |
And triumphs in his spoils: her wayward will | |
Defeats his bliss, and turns his good to ill! | |
Naught must be given, if she opposes; naught, | |
If she opposes, must be sold or bought; | 145 |
She tells him where to love, and where to hate, | |
Shuts out the ancient friend, whose beard his gate | |
Knew, from its downy to its hoary state: | |
And when pimps, parasites, of all degrees, | |
Have power to will their fortunes as they please, | 150 |
She dictates his; and impudently dares | |
To name his very rivals for his heirs! | |
“Go, crucify that slave.” For what offence? | |
Who the accuser? Where the evidence? | |
For when the life of MAN is in debate, | 155 |
No time can be too long, no care too great; | |
Hear all, weigh all with caution, I advise— | |
“Thou sniveller! is a slave a MAN?” she cries. | |
“He’s innocent! be’t so:—’tis my command, | |
My will; let that, sir, for a reason stand.” | 160 |
Thus the virago triumphs, thus she reigns: | |
Anon she sickens of her first domains, | |
And seeks for new; husband on husband takes, | |
Till of her bridal veil one rent she makes. | |
Again she tires, again for change she burns, | 165 |
And to the bed she lately left returns, | |
While the fresh garlands, and unfaded boughs, | |
Yet deck the portal of her wondering spouse. | |
Thus swells the list; EIGHT HUSBANDS IN FIVE YEARS: | |
A rare inscription for their sepulchres! * * * * * | 170 |
Nay more, they FENCE! who has not marked their oil, | |
Their purple rugs, for this preposterous toil? | |
Room for the lady—lo! she seeks the list, | |
And fiercely tilts at her antagonist, | |
A post! which, with her buckler, she provokes, | 175 |
And bores and batters with repeated strokes; | |
Till all the fencer’s art can do she shows, | |
And the glad master interrupts her blows. | |
O worthy, sure, to head those wanton dames, | |
Who foot it naked at the Floral games; | 180 |
Unless, with nobler daring, she aspire, | |
And tempt the arena’s bloody field—for hire! | |
What sense of shame is to that female known, | |
Who envies our pursuits, and hates her own? | |
Yet would she not, though proud in arms to shine | 185 |
(True woman still), her sex for ours resign; | |
For there’s a thing she loves beyond compare, | |
And we, alas! have no advantage there.— | |
Heavens! with what glee a husband must behold | |
His wife’s accoutrements, in public, sold; | 190 |
And auctioneers displaying to the throng | |
Her crest, her belt, her gauntlet, and her thong! | |
Or, if in wilder frolics she engage, | |
And take her private lessons for the stage, | |
Then three-fold rapture must expand his breast, | 195 |
To see her greaves “a-going,” with the rest. | |
Yet these are they, the tender souls! who sweat | |
In muslin, and in silk expire with heat.— | |
Mark, with what force, as the full blow descends, | |
She thunders “hah!” again, how low she bends | 200 |
Beneath the opposer’s stroke; how firm she rests, | |
Poised on her hams, and every step contests: | |
Then laugh—to see her squat, when all is o’er! | |
Daughters of Lepidus, and Gurges old, | |
And blind Metellus, did ye e’er behold | 205 |
Asylla (though a fencer’s trull contest) | |
Tilt at a stake, thus impudently drest! | |
’Tis night; yet hope no slumbers with your wife; | |
The nuptial bed is still the scene of strife: | |
There lives the keen debate, the clamorous brawl, | 210 |
And quiet “never comes, that comes to all.” | |
Fierce as a tigress plundered of her young, | |
Rage fires her breast, and loosens all her tongue, | |
When, conscious of her guilt, she feigns to groan, | |
And chides your loose amours, to hide her own; | 215 |
Storms at the scandal of your baser flames, | |
And weeps her injuries from imagined names, | |
With tears that, marshaled, at their station stand, | |
And flow impassioned, as she gives command. | |
You think those showers her true affection prove, | 220 |
And deem yourself—so happy in her love! | |
With fond caresses strive her heart to cheer, | |
And from her eyelids suck the starting tear: | |
—But could you now examine the scrutore | |
Of this most loving, this most jealous whore, | 225 |
What amorous lays, what letters would you see, | |
Proofs, damning proofs, of her sincerity! * * * * * | |
Now, all the evils of long peace are ours; | |
Luxury, more terrible than hostile powers, | |
Her baleful influence wide around has hurled, | 230 |
And well avenged the subjugated world! | |
—Since Poverty, our better Genius, fled, | |
Vice, like a deluge, o’er the State has spread. | |
Now, shame to Rome! in every street are found | |
The essenced Sybarite, with roses crowned, | 235 |
The gay Miletan, and the Tarentine, | |
Lewd, petulant, and reeling ripe with wine! | |
Wealth first, the ready pander to all sin, | |
Brought foreign manners, foreign vices in; | |
Enervate wealth, and with seductive art, | 240 |
Sapped every homebred virtue of the heart; | |
Yes, every:—for what cares the drunken dame | |
(Take head or tail, to her ’tis just the same), | |
Who, at deep midnight, on fat oysters sups, | |
And froths with unguents her Falernian cups; | 245 |
Who swallows oceans, till the tables rise, | |
And double lustres dance before her eyes! | |
Thus flushed, conceive, as Tullia homeward goes, | |
With what contempt she tosses up her nose | |
At Chastity’s hoar fane! what impious jeers | 250 |
Collatia pours in Maura’s tingling ears! | |
Here stop their litters, here they all alight, | |
And squat together in the goddess’ sight:— | |
You pass, aroused at dawn your court to pay, | |
The loathsome scene of their licentious play. | 255 |
Who knows not now, my friend, the secret rites | |
Of the GOOD GODDESS; when the dance excites | |
The boiling blood; when, to distraction wound, | |
By wine, and music’s stimulating sound, | |
The mænads of Priapus, with wild air, | 260 |
Howl horrible, and toss their flowing hair! | |
Then, how the wine at every pore o’erflows! | |
How the eye sparkles! how the bosom glows! | |
How the cheek burns! and, as the passions rise, | |
How the strong feeling bursts in eager cries!— | 265 |
Saufeia now springs forth, and tries a fall | |
With the town prostitutes, and throws them all; | |
But yields, herself, to Medullina, known | |
For parts, and powers, superior to her own. | |
Maids, mistresses, alike the contest share, | 270 |
And ’tis not always birth that triumphs there. | |
Nothing is feigned in this accursed game: | |
’Tis genuine all; and such as would inflame | |
The frozen age of Priam, and inspire | |
The ruptured bed-rid Nestor with desire. | 275 |
Stung with their mimic feats, a hollow groan | |
Of lust breaks forth; the sex, the sex is shown! | |
And one loud yell re-echoes through the den, | |
“Now, now, ’tis lawful! now admit the men!” | |
There’s none arrived. “Not yet! then scour the street, | 280 |
And bring us quickly here, the first you meet.” | |
There’s none abroad. “Then fetch our slaves.” They’re gone. | |
“Then hire a waterman.” There’s none. “Not one!”— | |
Nature’s strong barrier scarcely now restrains | |
The baffled fury in their boiling veins! * * * * * | 285 |
Others there are, who centre all their bliss | |
In the soft eunuch, and the beardless kiss: | |
They need not from his chin avert their face, | |
Nor use abortive drugs, for his embrace. | |
But oh! their joys run high, if he be formed, | 290 |
When his full veins the fire of love has warmed; | |
When every part’s to full perfection reared, | |
And naught of manhood wanting, but the beard. | |
But should the dame in music take delight, | |
The public singer is disabled quite; | 295 |
In vain the prætor guards him all he can; | |
She slips the buckle, and enjoys her man. | |
Still in her hand his instrument is found, | |
Thick set with gems, that shed a lustre round; | |
Still o’er his lyre the ivory quill she flings, | 300 |
Still runs divisions on the trembling strings, | |
The trembling strings, which the loved Hedymel | |
Was wont to strike—so sweetly, and so well! | |
These still she holds, with these she soothes her woes, | |
And kisses on the dear, dear wire bestows. | 305 |
A noble matron of the Lamian line | |
Inquired of Janus, (offering meal and wine) | |
If Pollio, at the Harmonic Games, would speed, | |
And wear the oaken crown, the victor’s meed! | |
What could she for a husband, more, have done, | 310 |
What for an only, an expiring son? | |
Yes; for a harper, the besotted dame | |
Approached the altar, reckless of her fame, | |
And veiled her head, and, with a pious air, | |
Followed the Aruspex through the form of prayer; | 315 |
And trembled, and turned pale, as he explored | |
The entrails, breathless for the fatal word! * * * * * | |
A woman stops at nothing, when she wears | |
Rich emeralds round her neck, and in her ears | |
Pearls of enormous size; these justify | 320 |
Her faults, and make all lawful in her eye. | |
Sure, of all ills with which mankind are curst, | |
A wife who brings you money is the worst. | |
Behold! her face a spectacle appears, | |
Bloated, and foul, and plastered to the ears | 325 |
With viscous paste:—the husband looks askew, | |
And sticks his lips in the detested glue. | |
She meets the adulterer bathed, perfumed, and drest, | |
But rots in filth at home, a very pest! | |
For him she breathes of nard; for him alone | 330 |
She makes the sweets of Araby her own; | |
For him, at length, she ventures to uncase, | |
Scales the first layer of roughcast from her face, | |
And, while the maids to know her now begin, | |
Clears, with that precious milk, her frowzy skin, | 335 |
For which, though exiled to the frozen main, | |
She’d lead a drove of asses in her train! | |
But tell me yet; this thing, thus daubed and oiled, | |
Thus poulticed, plastered, baked by turns and boiled, | |
Thus with pomatums, ointments, lacquered o’er, | 340 |
Is it a FACE, Ursidius, or a SORE? * * * * * | |