Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

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

Translations

Pygmalion and the Statue, out of the Tenth Book of Ovid’s Metamorphoses

The Propætides, for their impudent Behaviour, being turn’d into Stone by Venus, Pygmalion, Prince of Cyprus, detested all Women for their Sake, and resolv’d never to marry: He falls in love with a Statue of his own making, which is chang’d into a Maid, whom he marries. One of his Descendants is Cinyras, the Father of Myrrha; the Daughter incestuously loves her own Father; for which she is changed into the Tree which bears her Name. These two Stories immediately follow each other, and are admirably well connected.

Pygmalion loathing their lascivious Life,

Abhorr’d all Womankind, but most a Wife:

So single chose to live, and shunn’d to wed,

Well pleas’d to want a Consort of his Bed.

Yet fearing Idleness, the Nurse of Ill,

In Sculpture exercis’d his happy Skill;

And carv’d in Iv’ry such a Maid, so fair,

As Nature could not with his Art compare,

Were she to work; but in her own Defence,

Must take her Pattern here, and copy hence.

Pleas’d with his Idol, he commends, admires,

Adores; and last, the Thing ador’d, desires.

A very Virgin in her Face was seen,

And had she mov’d, a living Maid had been:

One wou’d have thought she could have stirr’d; but strove

With Modesty, and was asham’d to move.

Art hid with Art, so well perform’d the Cheat,

It caught the Carver with his own Deceit:

He knows ’tis Madness, yet he must adore,

And still the more he knows it, loves the more:

The Flesh, or what so seems, he touches oft,

Which feels so smooth, that he believes it soft.

Fir’d with this Thought, at once he strain’d the Breast,

And on the Lips a burning Kiss impress’d.

’Tis true, the harden’d Breast resists the Gripe,

And the cold Lips return a Kiss unripe:

But when, retiring back, he look’d agen,

To think it Iv’ry, was a thought too mean:

So wou’d believe she kiss’d, and courting more,

Again embrac’d her naked Body o’er;

And straining hard the Statue, was afraid

His Hands had made a Dint, and hurt his Maid:

Explor’d her, Limb by Limb, and fear’d to find

So rude a Gripe had left a livid Mark behind:

With Flatt’ry now he seeks her Mind to move,

And now with Gifts, (the pow’rful Bribes of Love:)

He furnishes her Closet first; and fills

The crowded Shelves with Rarities of Shells;

Adds Orient Pearls, which from the Conchs he drew,

And all the sparkling Stones of various Hue:

And Parrots, imitating Humane Tongue,

And Singing-birds in Silver Cages hung;

And ev’ry fragrant Flow’r, and od’rous Green,

Were sorted well, with Lumps of Amber laid between:

Rich, fashionable Robes her person Deck:

Pendants her Ears, and Pearls adorn her Neck:

Her taper’d Fingers too with Rings are grac’d,

And an embroider’d Zone surrounds her slender Waste.

Thus like a Queen array’d, so richly dress’d,

Beauteous she shew’d, but naked shew’d the best.

Then, from the Floor, he rais’d a Royal Bed,

With Cov’rings of Sydonian Purple spread:

The Solemn Rites perform’d, her calls her Bride,

With Blandishments invites her to his Side,

And as she were with Vital Sense possess’d,

Her Head did on a plumy Pillow rest.

The Feast of Venus came, a Solemn Day,

To which the Cypriots due Devotion pay;

With gilded Horns the Milk-white Heifers led,

Slaughter’d before the sacred Altars, bled:

Pygmalion off’ring, first approach’d the Shrine,

And then with Pray’rs implor’d the Pow’rs Divine:

Almighty Gods, if all we Mortals want,

If all we can require, be yours to grant;

Make this fair Statue mine, he would have said,

But chang’d his Words for shame; and only pray’d,

Give me the Likeness of my Iv’ry Maid.

The Golden Goddess, present at the Pray’r,

Well knew he meant th’ inanimated Fair,

And gave the Sign of granting his Desire;

For thrice in chearful Flames ascends the Fire.

The Youth, returning to his Mistress, hies,

And, impudent in Hope, with ardent Eyes,

And beating Breast, by the dear Statue lies.

He kisses her white Lips, renews the Bliss,

And looks and thinks they redden at the Kiss:

He thought them warm before: Nor longer stays,

But next his Hand on her hard Bosom lays:

Hard as it was, beginning to relent,

It seem’d, the Breast beneath his Fingers bent;

He felt again, his Fingers made a Print,

’T was Flesh, but Flesh so firm, it rose against the Dint:

The pleasing Task he fails not to renew;

Soft, and more soft at ev’ry Touch it grew;

Like pliant Wax, when chafing Hands reduce

The former Mass to Form, and frame for Use

He would believe, but yet is still in pain,

And tries his Argument of Sense again,

Presses the Pulse, and feels the leaping Vein.

Convinc’d, o’erjoy’d, his studied Thanks and Praise,

To her who made the Miracle, he pays:

Then Lips to Lips he join’d; now freed from Fear,

He found the Savour of the Kiss sincere:

At this the waken’d Image op’d her Eyes,

And view’d at once the Light and Lover, with surprize.

The Goddess present at the Match she made,

So bless’d the Bed, such Fruitfulness convey’d,

That e’er ten Moons had sharpen’d either Horn,

To crown their Bliss, a lovely Boy was born;

Paphos his Name, who, grown to Manhood, wall’d

The City Paphos, from the Founder call’d.