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John Dryden (1631–1700). The Poems of John Dryden. 1913.

Translations

From Aulus Persius Flaccus: The Sixth Satyr

Argument of the Sixth Satyr

This Sixth Satyr Treats an admirable Common-place of Moral Philosophy; Of the true Use of Riches. They are certainly intended, by the Power who bestows them, as Instruments and Helps of living Commodiously our selves, and of Administring to the Wants of others who are oppress’d by Fortune. There are two Extreams in the Opinions of Men concerning them. One Error, though on the right hand, yet a great one, is, That they are no Helps to a Virtuous Life; The other places all our Happiness in the Acquisition and Possession of them: and his is undoutedly, the worse Extream. The Mean betwixt these, is the Opinion of the Stoicks: Which is, That Riches may be Useful to the leading a Virtuous Life; in case we rightly understand how to Give according to right Reason; and how to receive what is given us by others. The Virtue of Giving Well, is call’d Liberality; and ’tis of this Virtue that Persius writes in this Satyr: Wherein he not only shows the lawful Use of Riches, but also sharply inveighs against the Vices which are oppos’d to it: And especially of those, which consist in the Defects of Giving or Spending, or in the Abuse of Riches. He writes to Cæsius Bassus, his Friend, and a Poet also. Enquires first of his Health and Studies; and afterwards informs him of his own, and where he is now resident. He gives an account of himself, that he is endeavouring by little and little to wear off his Vices; and particularly, that he is combating Ambition and the Desire of Wealth. He dwells upon the latter Vice; And being sensible that few Men either Desire, or Use Riches as they ought, he endeavours to convince them of their Folly; which is the main Design of the whole Satyr.

HAS Winter caus’d thee, Friend, to change thy Seat,

And seek, in Sabine Air, a warm retreat?

Say, do’st thou yet the Roman Harp command?

Do the Strings Answer to thy Noble hand?

Great Master of the Muse, inspir’d to Sing

The Beauties of the first Created Spring;

The Pedigree of Nature to rehearse;

And sound the Maker’s Work, in equal Verse.

Now, sporting on thy Lyre the Loves of Youth,

Now Virtuous Age, and venerable Truth;

Expressing justly Sapho’s wanton Art

Of Odes, and Pindar’s more Majestick part.

For me, my warmer Constitution wants

More cold, than our Ligurian Winter grants;

And, therefore, to my Native Shores retir’d,

I view the Coast old Ennius once admir’d;

Where Clifts on either side their points display;

And, after, opening in an ampler way,

Afford the pleasing Prospect of the Bay.

’Tis worth your while, O Romans, to regard

The Port of Luna, says our Learned Bard:

Who, in a Drunken Dream, beheld his Soul

The Fifth within the Transmigrating roul;

Which first a Peacock, then Euphorbus was,

Then Homer next, and next Pythagoras;

And last of all the Line did into Ennius pass.

Secure and free from Business of the State;

And more secure of what the vulgar Prate,

Here I enjoy my private Thoughts; nor care

What Rots for Sheep the Southern Winds prepare:

Survey the Neighb’ring Fields, and not repine,

When I behold a larger Crop than mine:

To see a Beggar’s Brat in Riches flow,

Adds not a Wrinckle to my even Brow;

Nor, envious at the sight, will I forbear

My plentious Bowl, nor bate my bounteous Cheer:

Nor yet unseal the Dregs of Wine that stink

Of Cask; nor in a nasty Flaggon Drink;

Let others stuff their Guts with homely fare:

For Men of diff’rent Inclinations are;

Tho born, perhaps, beneath one common Star.

In minds and manners Twins oppos’d we see

In the same Sign, almost the same Degree:

One, Frugal, on his Birth-Day fears to dine,

Does at a Penny’s cost in Herbs repine,

And hardly dares to dip his Fingers in the Brine.

Prepar’d as Priest of his own Rites to stand,

He sprinkles Pepper with a sparing hand.

His Jolly Brother, opposite in sence,

Laughs at his Thrift; and, lavish of Expence,

Quaffs, Crams, and Guttles, in his own defence.

For me, I’le use my own; and take my share;

Yet will not Turbots for my Slaves prepare:

Nor be so nice in taste my self to know

If what I swallow be a Thrush, or no.

Live on thy Annual Income! Spend thy store;

And freely grind, from thy full Threshing-Floor;

Next Harvest promises as much, or more.

Thus I wou’d live: But Friendship’s holy Band,

And Offices of kindness hold my hand:

My Friend is Shipwreck’d on the Brutian Strand,

His Riches in th’ Ionian Main are lost;

And he himself stands shiv’ring on the Coast;

Where, destitute of help, forlorn, and bare,

He wearies the Deaf Gods with Fruitless Pray’r.

Their Images, the Relicks of the Wrack,

Torn from the Naked Poop, are tided back,

By the Wild Waves, and rudely thrown ashore,

Lye impotent: Nor can themselves restore.

The Vessel sticks, and shows her open’d side,

And on her shatter’d Mast the Mews in Triumph ride.

From thy new hope, and from thy growing store,

Now lend Assistance, and relieve the Poor.

Come; do a Noble Act of Charity;

A Pittance of thy Land will set him free.

Let him not bear the Badges of a Wrack

Nor beg with a blue Table on his back.

Nor tell me that thy frowning Heir will say,

’Tis mine that Wealth thou squander’st thus away:

What is’t to thee, if he neglect thy Urn,

Or without Spices lets thy Body burn?

If Odours to thy Ashes he refuse,

Or buys Corrupted Cassia from the Jews?

All these, the wiser Bestius will reply,

Are empty Pomp, and Deadmen’s Luxury:

We never knew this vain Expence, before

Th’ effeminated Grecians brought it o’re:

Now Toys and Trifles from their Athens come;

And Dates and Pepper have unsinnew’d Rome.

Our sweating Hinds their Sallads, now, defile,

Infecting homely Herbs with fragrant Oyl.

But, to thy Fortune be not thou a Slave;

For what hast thou to fear beyond the Grave?

And thou who gap’st for my Estate, draw near;

For I wou’d whisper somewhat in thy Ear.

Hear’st thou the News, my Friend? th’ Express is come

With Laurell’d Letters from the Camp to Rome;

Cæsar Salutes the Queen and Senate thus:

My Arms are, on the Rhine, Victorious.

From Mourning Altars sweep the Dust away:

Cease Fasting, and proclaim a Fat Thanks-giving Day.

The goodly Empress, Jollily inclin’d,

Is, to the welcome Bearer, wond’rous kind:

And, setting her Goodhousewifry aside,

Prepares for all the Pageantry of Pride.

The Captive Germans, of Gygantick size,

Are ranck’d in order, and are clad in frize:

The Spoils of Kings, and Conquer’d Camps we boast,

Their Arms in Trophies hang, on the Triumphal post.

Now, for so many Glorious Actions done

In Foreign parts, and mighty Battels won;

For Peace at Home, and for the publick Wealth,

I mean to Crown a Bowl to Cæsar’s Health:

Besides, in Gratitude for such high matters,

Know I have vow’d two hundred Gladiators.

Say, wou’dst thou hinder me from this Expence?

I Disinherit thee, if thou dar’st take Offence.

Yet more a publick Largess I design

Of Oyl and Pyes to make the People dine:

Controul me not, for fear I change my Will;

And yet methinks I hear thee grumbling still,

You give as if you were the Persian King;

Your Land does no such large Revenues bring.

Well; on my Terms thou wilt not be my Heir;

If thou car’st little, less shall be my care:

Were none of all my Father’s Sisters left

Nay, were I of my Mother’s Kin bereft;

None by an Uncle’s or a Grandam’s side

Yet I cou’d some adopted Heir provide.

I need but take my Journey half a day

From haughty Rome, and at Aricea stay,

Where Fortune throws poor Manius in my way.

Him will I chuse: What him, of humble Birth,

Obscure, a Foundling, and a Son of Earth?

Obscure! Why prithee what am I? I know

My Father, Grandsire, and great Grandsire too:

If farther I derive my Pedigree,

I can but guess beyond the fourth degree.

The rest of my forgotten Ancestors

Were Sons of Earth, like him, or Sons of Whores.

Yet why shou’d’st thou, old covetous Wretch, aspire

To be my Heir, who might’st have been my Sire?

In Nature’s Race, shou’d’st thou demand of me

My Torch, when I in course run after thee?

Think I approach thee like the God of Gain,

With Wings on Head, and Heels, as Poets feign:

Thy mod’rate Fortune from my Gift receive;

Now fairly take it, or as fairly leave.

But take it as it is, and ask no more.

What, when thou hast embezel’d all thy store?

Where’s all thy Father left? ’Tis true, I grant,

Some I have mortgag’d, to supply my want:

The Legacies of Tadius too are flown:

All spent, and on the selfsame Errand gone.

How little then to my poor share will fall?

Little indeed; but yet that little’s all.

Nor tell me, in a dying Father’s tone,

Be careful still of the main chance, my Son;

Put out the Principal, in trusty hands:

Live of the Use; and never dip thy Lands:

But yet what’s left for me? What’s left, my Friend!

Ask that again, and all the rest I spend.

Is not my Fortune at my own Command?

Pour Oyl; and pour it with a plenteous hand,

Upon my Sallads, Boy: Shall I be fed

With sodden Nettles, and a sing’d Sow’s head?

’Tis Holyday; provide me better Cheer;

’Tis Holyday, and shall be round the Year.

Shall I my Household Gods, and Genius, cheat,

To make him rich, who grudges me my Meat,

That he may loll at ease; and pamper’d high,

When I am laid, may feed on Giblet Pye?

And when his throbbing Lust extends the Vein,

Have wherewithall his Whores to entertain?

Shall I in homespun Cloath be clad, that he

His Paunch in triumph may before him see?

Go Miser, go; for Lucre sell thy Soul;

Truck Wares for Wares, and trudge from Pole to Pole:

That Men may say, when thou art dead and gone,

See what a vast Estate he left his Son!

How large a Family of Brawny Knaves,

Well fed, and fat as Capadocian Slaves!

Increase thy Wealth, and double all thy Store;

’Tis done: Now double that, and swell the score;

To ev’ry thousand add ten thousand more.

Then say, Chrysippus, thou who wou’dst confine

Thy Heap, where I shall put an end to mine.