John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  His passage begs with unregarded Pray’r:

  And wants two Farthings to discharge his Fare.

  Return we to the Dangers of the Night;

  And, first, behold our Houses dreadful height: 430

  From whence come broken Potsherds tumbling down;

  And leaky Ware, from Garret Windows thrown:

  Well may they break our Heads, that mark the flinty Stone.

  ’Tis want of Sence to sup abroad too late;

  Unless thou first hast settled thy Estate. 435

  As many Fates attend, thy Steps to meet,

  As there are waking Windows in the Street.

  Bless the good Gods, and think thy chance is rare

  To have a Piss-pot only for thy share.

  The scouring Drunkard, if he does not fight 440

  Before his Bed-time, takes no rest that Night,

  Passing the tedious Hours in greater pain

  Than stern Achilles, when his Friend was slain:

  ’Tis so ridiculous, but so true withall,

  A Bully cannot sleep without a Braul: 445

  Yet tho his youthful Blood be fir’d with Wine,

  He wants not Wit, the Danger to decline:

  Is cautious to avoid the Coach and Six,

  And on the Lacquies will no Quarrel fix

  His Train of Flambeaus, and Embroider’d Coat 450

  May Priviledge my Lord to walk secure on Foot.

  But me, who must by Moon-light homeward bend,

  Or lighted only with a Candle’s end,

  Poor me he fights, if that be fighting, where

  He only Cudgels, and I only bear. 455

  He stands, and bids me stand: I must abide;

  For he’s the stronger, and is Drunk beside.

  Where did you whet your Knife to Night, he cries,

  And shred the Leeks that in your Stomach rise?

  Whose windy Beans have stuff’t your Guts, and where 460

  Have your black Thumbs been dipt in Vinegar?

  With what Companion Cobler have you fed,

  On old Ox-cheeks, or He-Goats tougher Head?

  What, are you Dumb? Quick with your Answer, quick,

  Before my Foot Salutes you with a Kick. 465

  Say, in what nasty Cellar, under Ground,

  Or what Church-Porch, your Rogueship may be found?

  Answer, or Answer not, ’tis all the same:

  He lays me on, and makes me bear the blame.

  Before the Bar, for beating him, you come; 470

  This is a Poor Man’s Liberty in Rome.

  You beg his Pardon; happy to retreat

  With some remaining Teeth, to chew your Meat.

  Nor is this all; for, when Retir’d, you think

  To sleep securely; when the Candles wink, 475

  When every Door with Iron Chains is barr’d,

  And roaring Taverns are no longer heard;

  The Ruffian Robbers by no Justice aw’d,

  And unpaid cut-Throat Soldiers, are abroad;

  Those Venal Souls, who, harden’d in each ill 480

  To save Complaints and Prosecution, kill.

  Chas’d from their Woods and Bogs, the Padders come

  To this vast City, as their Native Home;

  To live at ease, and safely sculk in Rome.

  The Forge in Fetters only is employ’d; 485

  Our Iron Mines exhausted and destroy’d

  In Shackles; for these Villains scarce allow

  Goads for the Teams, and Plough-shares for the Plough.

  Oh happy Ages of our Ancestours,

  Beneath the Kings and Tribunitial Pow’rs! 490

  One Jayl did all their Criminals restrain;

  Which, now, the Walls of Rome can scarce contain.

  More I cou’d say, more Causes I cou’d show

  For my departure; but the Sun is low:

  The Waggoner grows weary of my stay; 495

  And whips his Horses forwards on their way.

  Farewell; and when, like me, o’rewhelm’d with care.

  You to your own Aquinum shall repair,

  To take a mouthful of sweet Country air,

  Be mindful of your Friend; and send me word, 500

  What Joys your Fountains and cool Shades afford:

  Then, to assist your Satyrs, I will come;

  And add new Venom, when you write of Rome.

  The End of the Third Satyr.

  Juvenal: The Sixth Satyr

  ARGUMENT of the Sixth Satyr

  This Satyr, of almost double length to any of the rest, is a bitter invective against the fair Sex. ’Tis indeed, a Common-place, from whence all the Moderns have notoriously stollen their sharpest Raileries. In his other Satyrs, the Poet has only glanc’d on some particular Women, and generally scourg’d the Men. But this he reserv’d wholly for the Ladies. How they had offended him I know not: But upon the whole matter he is not to be excus’d for imputing to all, the Vices of some few amongst them. Neither was it generously done of him, to attack the weakest as well as the fairest part of the Creation: Neither do I know what Moral he cou’d reasonably draw from it. It could not be to avoid the whole Sex, if all had been true which he alledges against them: for that had been to put an end to Humane Kind. And to bid us beware of their Artifices, is a kind of silent acknowledgment, that they have more wit than Men: which turns the Satyr upon us, and particularly upon the Poet; who thereby makes a Complement, where he meant a Libel. If he intended only to exercise his Wit, he has forfeited his Judgment, by making the one half of his Readers his mortal Enemies: And amongst the Men, all the happy Lovers, by their own Experience, will disprove his Accusations. The whole World must allow this to be the wittiest of his Satyrs; and truly he had need of all his parts, to maintain, with so much violence, so unjust a Charge. I am satisfied he will bring but few over to his Opinion: And on that Consideration chiefly I ventur’d to translate him. Though there wanted not another Reason, which was, that no one else would undertake it: at least, Sir C. S. who cou’d have done more right to the Author, after a long delay, at length absolutely refus’d so ungrateful an employment: And every one will grant, that the Work must have been imperfect and lame, if it had appeared without one of the Principal Members belonging to it. Let the Poet therefore bear the blame of his own Invention; and let me satisfie the World, that I am not of his Opinion. Whatever his Roman Ladies were, the English are free from all his Imputations.

  They will read with Wonder and Abhorrence the Vices of an Age, which was the most Infamous of any on Record. They will bless themselves when they behold those Examples, related of Domitian’s time: they will give back to Antiquity those Monsters it produc’d: And believe with reason, that the Species of those Women is extinguish’d; or at least that they were never here propagated. I may safely therefore proceed to the Argument of a Satyr, which is no way relating to them: And first observe, that my Author makes their Lust the most Heroick of their Vices: The rest are in a manner but digression. He skims them over; but he dwells on this: when he seems to have taken his last leave of it, on the sudden he returns to it: ’tis one Branch of it in Hippia, another in Messalina, but Lust is the main Body of the Tree. He begins with this Text in the first line, and takes it up with Intermissions to the end of the Chapter. Every Vice is a Loader, but that’s a Ten. The Fillers, or intermediate Parts, are their Revenge; their Contrivances of secret Crimes; their Arts to hide them; their Wit to excuse them; and their Impudence to own them, when they can no longer be kept secret. Then the Persons to whom they are most addicted, and on whom they commonly bestow the last Favours: as Stage-Players, Fidlers, Singing-Boys, and Fencers. Those who pass for Chast amongst them, are not really so; but only for their vast Dowries, are rather suffer’d, than lov’d by their own Husbands. That they are Imperious, Domineering, Scolding Wives: Set up for Learning and Criticism in Poetry, but are false Judges. Love to speak Greek, (Which was then the Fashionable Tongue, as French is now with us.) That they plead Causes at the Bar
, and play Prizes at the Bear-Garden. That they are Gossips and News-Mongers: Wrangle with their Neighbours abroad, and beat their Servants at home. That they lie-in for new Faces once a Month; are sluttish with their Husbands in private; and Paint and Dress in Publick for their Lovers. That they deal with Jews, Diviners, and Fortunetellers: Learn the Arts of Miscarrying, and Barrenness. Buy Children, and produce them for their own. Murther their Husbands Sons, if they stand in their way to his Estate, and make their Adulterers his Heirs. From hence the Poet proceeds to shew the Occasions of all these Vices, their Original, and how they were introduced in Rome, by Peace, Wealth, and Luxury. In conclusion, if we will take the word of our malicious Author; Bad Women are the general standing Rule; and the Good, but some few exceptions to it.

  The Sixth Satyr

  IN Saturn’s Reign, at Nature’s Early Birth,

  There was that Thing call’d Chastity on Earth;

  When in a narrow Cave, their common shade,

  The Sheep the Shepherds and their Gods were laid:

  When Reeds and Leaves, and Hides of Beasts were spread 5

  By Mountain Huswifes for their homely Bed,

  And Mossy Pillows rais’d, for the rude Husband’s head.

  Unlike the Niceness of our Modern Dames,

  (Affected Nymphs with new affected Names:)

  The Cynthia’s and the Lesbia’s of our Years, 10

  Who for a Sparrow’s Death dissolve in Tears.

  Those first unpolisht Matrons, Big and Bold,

  Gave Suck to Infants of Gygantick Mold;

  Rough as their Savage Lords who Rang’d the Wood,

  And fat with Akorns Belcht their windy Food. 15

  For when the World was Bucksom, fresh, and young,

  Her Sons were undebauch’d, and therefore strong;

  And whether Born in kindly Beds of Earth,

  Or strugling from the Teeming Oaks to Birth,

  Or from what other Atoms they begun, 20

  No Sires they had, or if a Sire the Sun.

  Some thin Remains of Chastity appear’d

  Ev’n under Jove, but Jove without a Beard;

  Before the servile Greeks had learnt to Swear

  By Heads of Kings; while yet the Bounteous Year 25

  Her common Fruits in open Plains expos’d,

  E’re thieves were fear’d, or Gardens were enclos’d.

  At length uneasie Justice upwards flew,

  And both the Sisters to the Stars withdrew;

  From that Old Æra Whoring did begin, 30

  So Venerably Ancient is the Sin.

  Adult’rers next invade the Nuptial State,

  And Marriage-Beds creak’d with a Foreign Weight;

  All other Ills did Iron times adorn;

  But Whores and Silver in one Age were Born. 35

  Yet thou, they say, for Marriage do’st provide:

  Is this an Age to Buckle with a Bride?

  They say thy Hair the Curling Art is taught,

  The Wedding-Ring perhaps already bought:

  A Sober Man like thee to change his Life! 40

  What Fury wou’d possess thee with a Wife?

  Art thou of ev’ry other Death bereft,

  No Knife, no Ratsbane, no kind Halter left?

  (For every Noose compar’d to Hers is cheap)

  Is there no City-Bridge from whence to leap? 45

  Would’st thou become her Drudge, who dost enjoy

  A better sort of Bedfellow, thy Boy?

  He keeps thee not awake with nightly Brawls,

  Nor with a beg’d Reward, thy Pleasure palls;

  Nor with insatiate heavings calls for more, 50

  When all thy Spirits were drain’d out before.

  But still Ursidius Courts the Marriage-Bait,

  Longs for a Son, to settle his Estate,

  And takes no Gifts, tho every gapeing Heir

  Wou’d gladly Grease the Rich Old Batchelour. 55

  What Revolution can appear so strange,

  As such a Leacher, such a Life to change?

  A rank, notorious Whoremaster, to choose

  To thrust his Neck into the Marriage-Noose!

  He who so often in a dreadful fright 60

  Had in a Coffer ‘scap’d the jealous Cuckold’s sight,

  That he, to Wedlock dotingly betray’d,

  Should hope, in this lewd Town, to find a Maid!

  The Man’s grown Mad: To ease his Frantick Pain,

  Run for the Surgeon; breathe the middle Vein: 65

  But let a Heyfer with gilt Horns be led

  To Juno, Regent of the Marriage-Bed,

  And let him every Deity adore,

  If his new Bride prove not an arrant Whore,

  In Head and Tail, and every other Pore. 70

  On Ceres feast, restrain’d from their delight,

  Few Matrons, there, but Curse the tedious Night:

  Few whom their Fathers dare Salute, such Lust

  Their Kisses have, and come with such a Gust.

  With Ivy now Adorn thy Doors, and Wed; 75

  Such is thy Bride, and such thy Genial Bed.

  Think’st thou one Man is for one Woman meant?

  She, sooner, with one Eye wou’d be content

  And yet, ’tis nois’d, a Maid did once appear

  In some small Village, tho Fame says not where: 80

  ’Tis possible; but sure no Man she found;

  ’Twas desart, all, about her Father’s Ground:

  And yet some Lustful God might there make bold;

  Are Jove and Mars grown impotent and old?

  Many a fair Nymph has in a Cave been spread, 85

  And much good Love, without a Feather-Bed.

  Whither wou’dst thou to chuse a Wife resort,

  The Park, the Mall, the Play-house, or the Court?

  Which way soever thy Adventures fall,

  Secure alike of Chastity in all. 90

  One sees a Dancing-Master Capring high,

  And Raves, and Pisses, with pure Extasie:

  Another does, with all his Motions, move,

  And Gapes, and Grins as in the feat of Love:

  A third is Charm’d with the new Opera Notes, 95

  Admires the Song, but on the Singer Doats:

  The Country Lady in the Box appears,

  Softly She Warbles over all she hears;

  And sucks in Passion, both at Eyes and Ears.

  The rest, (when now the long Vacation’s come, 100

  The noisie Hall and Theatres grown dumb)

  Their Memories to refresh, and chear their hearts,

  In borrow’d Breaches act the Players parts.

  The Poor, that scarce have wherewithal to eat,

  Will pinch, to make the Singing-Boy a Treat. 105

  The Rich, to buy him, will refuse no price;

  And stretch his Quail-pipe, till they crack his Voice.

  Tragedians, acting Love, for Lust are sought:

  (Tho but the Parrots of a Poet’s Thought.)

  The Pleading Lawyer, tho for Counsel us’d, 110

  In Chamber-practice often is refus’d.

  Still thou wilt have a Wife, and father Heirs;

  (The product of concurring Theatres.)

  Perhaps a Fencer did thy Brows adorn,

  And a young Sword-man to thy Lands is born. 115

  Thus Hippia loath’d her old Patrician Lord,

  And left him for a Brother of the Sword:

  To wondring Pharos with her Love she fled,

  To show one Monster more than Africk bred:

  Forgetting House and Husband, left behind, 120

  Ev’n Children too; she sails before the wind;

  False to ‘em all, but constant to her Kind.

  But, stranger yet, and harder to conceive,

  She cou’d the Play-house and the Players leave.

  Born of rich Parentage, and nicely bred, 125

  She lodg’d on Down, and in a Damask Bed;

  Yet, daring now the Dang
ers of the Deep,

  On a hard Mattress is content to sleep.

  E’re this, ’tis true, she did her Fame expose:

  But that, great Ladies with great Ease can lose. 130

  The tender Nymph cou’d the rude Ocean bear:

  So much her Lust was stronger than her Fear.

  But, had some honest Cause her Passage prest,

  The smallest hardship had disturb’d her brest:

  Each Inconvenience makes their Virtue cold; 135

  But Womankind, in Ills, is ever bold.

  Were she to follow her own Lord to Sea,

  What doubts and scruples wou’d she raise to stay?

  Her Stomach sick, and her head giddy grows;

  The Tar and Pitch are nauseous to her Nose. 140

  But in Love’s Voyage nothing can offend;

  Women are never Sea-sick with a Friend.

  Amidst the Crew, she walks upon the boord;

  She eats, she drinks, she handles every Cord:

  And, if she spews, ’tis thinking of her Lord. 145

  Now ask, for whom her Friends and Fame she lost?

  What Youth, what Beauty cou’d th’ Adult’rer boast?

  What was the Face, for which she cou’d sustain

  To be call’d Mistress to so base a Man?

  The Gallant, of his days had known the best: 150

  Deep Scars were seen indented on his breast;

  And all his batter’d Limbs requir’d their needful rest.

  A Promontory Wen, with griesly grace,

  Stood high, upon the Handle of his Face:

  His blear Eyes ran in gutters to his Chin: 155

  His Beard was Stubble, and his Cheeks were thin.

  But ’twas his Fencing did her Fancy move:

  ’Tis Arms and Blood and Cruelty they love.

  But should he quit his Trade, and sheath his Sword,

  Her Lover wou’d begin to be her Lord. 160

  This was a private Crime; but you shall hear

  What Fruits the Sacred Brows of Monarchs bear:

  The good old Sluggard but began to snore,

  When from his side up rose th’ Imperial Whore:

  She who preferr’d the Pleasures of the Night 165

  To Pomps, that are but impotent delight;

  Strode from the Palace, with an eager pace,

  To cope with a more Masculine Embrace;

  Muffled she march’d, like Juno in a Clowd,

  Of all her Train but one poor Wench allow’d, 170

  One whom in Secret Service she cou’d trust;

  The Rival and Companion of her Lust.

  To the known Brothel-house she takes her way;