Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

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

Translations

From Juvenal: The First Satyr

ARGUMENT of the first Satyr

The Poet gives us first a kind of humorous Reason for his Writing: That being provok’d by hearing so many ill Poets rehearse their Works, he does himself Justice on them, by giving them as bad as they bring. But since no man will rank himself with ill Writers, ’tis easie to conclude, that if such Wretches cou’d draw an Audience, he thought it no hard matter to excel them, and gain a greater esteem with the Publick. Next he informs us more openly, why he rather addicts himself to Satyr, than any other kind of Poetry. And here he discovers that it is not so much his indignation to ill Poets, as to ill Men, which has prompted him to write. He therefore gives us a summary and general view of the Vices and Follies reigning in his time. So that this first Satyr is the natural Groundwork of all the rest. Herein he confines himself to no one Subject, but strikes indifferently at all Men in his way: In every following Satyr he has chosen some particular Moral which he wou’d inculcate; and lashes some particular Vice or Folly, (An Art with which our Lampooners are not much acquainted.) But our Poet being desirous to reform his own Age, and not daring to attempt it by an Overt act of naming living Persons, inveighs onely against those who were infamous in the times immediately preceding his, whereby he not only gives a fair warning to Great Men, that their Memory lies at the mercy of future Poets and Historians, but also with a finer stroke of his Pen, brands ev’n the living, and personates them under dead mens Names.

I have avoided as much as I cou’d possibly the borrowed Learning of Marginal Notes and Illustrations, and for that reason have Translated this Satyr somewhat largely. And freely own (if it be a fault) that I have likewise omitted most of the Proper Names, because I thought they wou’d not much edifie the Reader. To conclude, if in two or three places I have deserted all the Commentators, ’tis because I thought they first deserted my Author, or at least have left him in so much obscurity, that too much room is left for guessing.

STILL shall I hear, and never quit the Score,

Stun’d with hoarse Codrus Theseid, o’re and o’re?

Shall this man’s Elegies and t’other’ Play

Unpunish’d Murther a long Summer’s day?

Huge Telephus, a formidable page,

Cries Vengeance; and Orestes’s bulky rage,

Unsatisfy’d with Margins closely writ,

Foams o’re the Covers, and not finish’d yet.

No Man can take a more familiar note

Of his own Home, than I of Vulcan’s Grott,

Or Mars his Grove, or hollow winds that blow

From Ætna’s top, or tortur’d Ghosts below.

I know by rote the Fam’d Exploits of Greece;

The Centaurs fury, and the Golden Fleece;

Through the thick shades th’ Eternal Scribler bauls;

And shakes the Statues on their Pedestals.

The best and worst on the same Theme employs

His Muse, and plagues us with an equal noise.

Provok’d by these Incorrigible Fools,

I left declaiming in pedantick Schools;

Where, with Men-boys, I strove to get Renown,

Advising Sylla to a private Gown.

But, since the World with Writing is possest,

I’ll versifie in spite; and do my best

To make as much waste Paper as the rest.

But why I lift aloft the Satyrs Rod,

And tread the Path which fam’d Lucilius trod,

Attend the Causes which my Muse have led:

When Sapless Eunuchs mount the Marriage-bed,

When Mannish Mevia, that two-handed Whore,

Astride on Horse-back hunts the Tuscan Boar;

When all our Lords are by his Wealth outvy’d,

Whose Razour on my callow-beard was try’d;

When I behold the Spawn of conquer’d Nile

Crispinus both in Birth and Manners vile,

Pacing in pomp, with Cloak of Tyrian dye,

Chang’d oft a day for needless Luxury;

And finding oft occasion to be fan’d,

Ambitious to produce his Lady-hand;

Charg’d with light Summer-rings his fingers sweat,

Unable to support a Gem of weight:

Such fulsom Objects meeting every where,

’Tis hard to write, but harder to forbear.

To view so lewd a Town, and to refrain,

What Hoops of Iron cou’d my Spleen contain!

When pleading Matho, born abroad for Air,

With his Fat Paunch fills his new fashion’d Chair,

And after him the Wretch in Pomp convey’d,

Whose Evidence his Lord and Friend betray’d,

And but the wish’d Occasion does attend

From the poor Nobles the last Spoils to rend,

Whom ev’n Spies dread as their Superiour Fiend,

And bribe with Presents, or, when Presents fail,

They send their prostituted Wives for bail:

When Night-performance holds the place of Merit,

And Brawn and Back the next of Kin disherit;

For such good Parts are in Preferment’s way,

The Rich Old Madam never fails to pay;

Her Legacies by Nature’s Standard giv’n,

One gains an Ounce, another gains Eleven:

A dear-bought Bargain, all things duly weigh’d,

For which their thrice Concocted Blood is paid.

With looks as wan, as he who in the Brake

At unawares has trod upon a Snake;

Or play’d at Lions a declaiming Prize,

For which the Vanquish’d Rhetorician Dyes.

What Indignation boils within my Veins,

When perjur’d Guardians, proud with Impious Gains,

Choak up the Streets, too narrow for their Trains!

Whose Wards by want betray’d, to Crimes are led

Too foul to Name, too fulsom to be read!

When he who pill’d his Province scapes the Laws,

And keeps his Money though he lost his Cause:

His Fine begg’d off, contemns his Infamy,

Can rise at twelve, and get him Drunk e’re three:

Enjoys his Exile, and, Condemn’d in vain,

Leaves thee, prevailing Province, to complain!

Such Villanies rous’d Horace into Wrath

And ’tis more Noble to pursue his Path,

Than an Old Tale of Diomede to repeat,

Or lab’ring after Hercules to sweat,

Or wandring in the winding Maze of Creet;

Or with the winged Smith aloft to fly,

Or flutt’ring Perish with his foolish Boy.

With what Impatience must the Muse behold

The Wife by her procuring Husband sold?

For though the Law makes Null th’ Adulterer’s Deed

Of Lands to her, the Cuckold may succeed;

Who his taught Eyes up to the Cieling throws,

And sleeps all over but his wakeful Nose.

When he dares hope a Colonel’s Command,

Whose Coursers kept, ran out his Father’s Land;

Who yet a Stripling Nero’s Chariot drove,

Whirl’d o’re the Streets, while his vain Master strove

With boasted Art to please his Eunuch-Love.

Wou’d it not make a modest Author dare

To draw his Table-Book within the Square,

And fill with Notes, when lolling at his ease,

Mecenas-like, the happy Rogue he sees

Born by Six weary’d Slaves in open View,

Who Cancell’d an old Will, and forg’d a New;

Made wealthy at the small expence of Signing

With a wet Seal, and a fresh Interlining?

The Lady, next, requires a lashing Line,

Who squeez’d a Toad into her Husband’s Wine:

So well the fashionable Med’cine thrives,

That now ’tis Practis’d ev’n by Country Wives:

Poys’ning without regard of Fame or Fear:

And spotted Corps are frequent on the Bier.

Wou’dst thou to Honours and Preferments climb,

Be bold in Mischief, dare some mighty Crime,

Which Dungeons, Death, or Banishment deserves:

For Virtue is but dryly Prais’d, and Sterves.

Great Men, to great Crimes, owe their Plate Embost,

Fair Palaces, and Furniture of Cost;

And high Commands: A Sneaking Sin is lost.

Who can behold that rank Old Letcher keep

His Son’s Corrupted Wife, and hope to sleep?

Or that Male-Harlot, or that unfledg’d Boy,

Eager to Sin, before he can enjoy?

If Nature cou’d not, Anger would indite

Such woeful stuff as I or S——ll write.

Count from the time, since Old Deucalion’s Boat,

Rais’d by the Flood, did on Parnassus Float;

And scarcely Mooring on the Cliff, implor’d

An Oracle how Man might be restor’d;

When soften’d Stones and Vital Breath ensu’d,

And Virgins Naked were by Lovers View’d;

What ever since that Golden Age was done,

What Humane Kind desires, and what they shun,

Rage, Passions, Pleasures, Impotence of Will,

Shall this Satyrical Collection fill.

What Age so large a Crop of Vices bore,

Or when was Avarice extended more?

When were the Dice with more Porfusion thrown?

The well fill’d Fob not empty’d now alone,

But Gamesters for whole Patrimonies play;

The Steward brings the Deeds which must convey

The lost Estate: What more than Madness reigns,

When one short sitting many Hundreds Drains,

And not enough is left him to supply

Board-Wages, or a Footman’s Livery?

What Age so many Summer-Seats did see?

Or which of our Forefathers far’d so well

As on seven Dishes, at a private Meal?

Clients of Old were Feasted; now a poor

Divided Dole is dealt a th’ outward Door

Which by the Hungry Rout is soon dispatch’d

The Paltry Largess, too, severely watch’d

E’re given; and ev’ry Face observ’d with Care,

That no intruding Guest Usurp a share.

Known, you Receive: The Cryer calls aloud

Our Old Nobility of Trojan Blood,

Who gape among the Croud for their precarious Food.

The Prætors, and the Tribunes Voice is heard;

The Freedman justles and will be preferr’d;

First come, first serv’d he Cries; and I, in spight

Of your Great Lordships, will Maintain my Right.

Tho born a Slave tho my torn Ears are bor’d,

’Tis not the Birth, tis Mony makes the Lord.

The Rents of Five fair Houses I received

What greater Honours can the Purple give

The Poor Patrician is reduc’d to keep

In Melancholly Walks a Grazier’s Sheep;

Not Pallas nor Licinius had my Treasure;

Then let the Sacred Tribunes wait my leasure.

Once a Poor Rogue, ’tis true, I trod the Street.

And trudg’d to Rome upon my Naked Feet

Gold is the greatest God; though yet we see

No Temples rais’d to Mony’s Majesty,

No Altars fuming to her Pow’r Divine.

Such as to Valour, Peace, and Virtue Shine

And Faith, and Concord: where the Stork on high

Seems to Salute her Infant Progeny,

Presaging Pious Love with her Auspicious Cry,

But since our Knights and Senate account

To what their sordid begging Vails amount,

Judge what a wretched share the Poor attends,

Whose whole Subsistence on those Alms depends!

Their Household-Fire, their Rayment, and their Food,

Prevented by those Harpies; when a wood

Of Litters thick besiege the Donor’s Gate,

And begging Lords, and teeming Ladies wait

The promis’d Dole: Nay some have learn’d the trick

To beg for absent persons; feign them sick,

Close mew’d in their Sedans, for fear of air:

And for their Wives produce an empty Chair.

This is my Spouse: Dispatch her with her share.

’Tis Galla: Let her Ladyship but peep:

No, Sir, ’tis pity to disturb her sleep.

Such fine Employments our whole days divide:

The Salutations of the Morning-tide

Call up the Sun; those ended, to the Hall

We wait the Patron, hear the Lawyers baul;

Then to the Statues; where amidst the Race

Of Conqu’ring Rome, some Arab shews his Face

Inscrib’d with Titles, and profanes the place;

Fit to be piss’d against, and somewhat more.

The Great Man, home conducted, shuts his door;

Old Clients, weary’d out with fruitless care,

Dismiss their hopes of eating, and despair:

Though much against the grain, forc’d to retire,

Buy Roots for Supper, and provide a Fire.

Mean time his Lordship lolls within at ease,

Pamp’ring his Paunch with Foreign Rarities;

Both Sea and Land are ransack’d for the Feast;

And his own Gut the sole invited Guest.

Such Plate, such Tables, Dishes dress’d so well,

That whole Estates are swallow’d at a Meal.

Ev’n Parasites are banish’d from his Board:

(At once a sordid and luxurious Lord:)

Prodigious Throat, for which whole Boars are drest;

(A Creature form’d to furnish out a Feast.)

But present Punishment pursues his Maw,

When surfeited and swell’d, the Peacock raw

He bears into the Bath; whence want of Breath,

Repletions, Apoplex, intestate Death.

His Fate makes Table-talk, divulg’d with scorn,

And he, a Jeast, into his Grave is born.

No Age can go beyond us: Future Times

Can add no farther to the present Crimes.

Our Sons but the same things can wish and do;

Vice is at stand, and at the highest flow.

Then Satyr spread thy Sails; take all the winds can blow.

Some may, perhaps, demand what Muse can yield

Sufficient strength for such a spacious Field?

From whence can be deriv’d so large a Vein,

Bold Truths to speak, and spoken to maintain;

When God-like Freedom is so far bereft

The Noble Mind, that scarce the Name is left?

E’re Scandalum Magnatum was begot,

No matter if the Great forgave or not

But if that honest license now you take,

If, into Rogues Omnipotent you rake,

Death is your Doom, impail’d upon a Stake:

Smear’d o’re with Wax, and set on fire, to light

The Streets, and make a dreadful blaze by night.

Shall They, who drench’d three Uncles in a draught

Of poys’nous Juice, be then in Triumph brought,

Make Lanes among the People where they go,

And, mounted high on downy Chariots, throw

Disdainful glances on the Crowd below?

Be silent, and beware, if such you see;

’Tis Defamation but to say, That’s He!

Against bold Turnus the Great Trojan Arm,

Amidst their strokes the Poet gets no harm:

Achilles may in Epique Verse be slain,

And none of all his Myrmidons complain:

Hylas may drop his Pitcher, none will cry;

Not if he drown himself for company:

But when Lucilius brandishes his Pen,

And flashes in the face of Guilty Men,

A cold Sweat stands in drops on ev’ry part;

And Rage succeeds to Tears, Revenge to Smart.

Muse, be advis’d; ’tis past consid’ring time

When enter’d once the dangerous Lists of Rhime:

Since none the Living-Villains dare implead,

Arraign them in the Persons of the Dead.