John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  (Tho’ Neptune took unkindly to be bound;

  And Eurus never such hard usage found

  In his Eolian Prisons under ground;)

  What God so mean, ev’n he who points the way,

  So Merciless a Tyrant to Obey! 295

  But how return’d he, let us ask again?

  In a poor Skiff he pass’d the bloody Main,

  Choak’d with the slaughter’d Bodies of his Train.

  For Fame he pray’d, but let th’ Event declare

  He had no mighty penn’worth of his Pray’r. 300

  Jove, grant me length of Life, and Years good store

  Heap on my bending Back, I ask no more.

  Both Sick and Healthful, Old and Young, conspire

  In this one silly, mischievous desire.

  Mistaken Blessing, which Old Age they call, 305

  ’Tis a long, nasty, darksom Hospital,

  A ropy Chain of Rhumes; a Visage rough,

  Deform’d, Unfeatur’d, and a Skin of Buff.

  A stitch-fal’n Cheek, that hangs below the Jaw;

  Such Wrinckles, as a skillful Hand wou’d draw 310

  For an old Grandam Ape, when, with a Grace,

  She sits at squat, and scrubs her Leathern Face.

  In Youth, distinctions infinite abound;

  No Shape, or Feature, just alike are found;

  The Fair, the Black, the Feeble, and the Strong; 315

  But the same foulness does to Age belong,

  The self same Palsie, both in Limbs, and Tongue.

  The Skull and Forehead one Bald Barren plain;

  And Gums unarm’d to Mumble Meat in vain:

  Besides th’ Eternal Drivel, that supplies 320

  The dropping Beard, from Nostrils, Mouth, and Eyes.

  His Wife and Children loath him, and, what’s worse,

  Himself does his offensive Carrion Curse!

  Flatt’rers forsake him too; for who would kill

  Himself, to be Remembred in a Will? 325

  His taste, not only pall’d to Wine and Meat,

  But to the Relish of a Nobler Treat.

  The limber Nerve, in vain provok’d to rise,

  Inglorious from the Field of Battel flies:

  Poor Feeble Dotard, how cou’d he advance 330

  With his Blew head-piece, and his broken Lance?

  Add, that endeavouring still without effect

  A Lust more sordid justly we suspect.

  Those Senses lost, behold a new defeat,

  The Soul, dislodging from another seat. 335

  What Musick, or Enchanting Voice, can chear

  A Stupid, Old, Impenetrable Ear?

  No matter in what Place, or what Degree

  Of the full Theater he sits to see;

  Cornets and Trumpets cannot reach his Ear: 340

  Under an Actor’s Nose he’s never near.

  His Boy must bawl, to make him understand

  The Hour o’ th’ Day, or such a Lord’s at hand:

  The little Blood that creeps within his Veins,

  Is but just warm’d in a hot Feaver’s pains. 345

  In fine, he wears no Limb about him sound:

  With Sores and Sicknesses beleaguer’d round:

  Ask me their Names, I sooner cou’d relate

  How many Drudges on Salt Hippia wait;

  What Crowds of Patients the Town Doctor kills, 350

  Or how, last fall, he rais’d the Weekly Bills.

  What Provinces by Basilus were spoil’d,

  What Herds of Heirs by Guardians are beguil’d:

  How many bouts a Day that Bitch has try’d;

  How many Boys that Pedagogue can ride! 355

  What Lands and Lordships for their Owners know

  My Quondam Barber, but his worship now.

  This Dotard of his broken Back complains,

  One his Legs fail, and one his Shoulder pains:

  Another is of both his Eyes bereft; 360

  And Envies who has one for Aiming left.

  A Fifth with trembling Lips expecting stands;

  As in his Child-hood, cram’d by others hands;

  One, who at sight of Supper open’d wide

  His Jaws before, and Whetted Grinders try’d; 365

  Now only Yawns, and waits to be supply’d:

  Like a young Swallow, when with weary Wings

  Expected Food her fasting Mother brings.

  His loss of Members is a heavy Curse,

  But all his Faculties decay’d, a worse! 370

  His Servants Names he has forgotten quite;

  Knows not his Friend who supp’d with him last Night.

  Not ev’n the Children, he Begot and Bred;

  Or his Will knows ‘em not: For, in their stead,

  In Form of Law, a common Hackney Jade, 375

  Sole Heir, for secret Services, is made:

  So lewd, and such a batter’d Brothel Whore,

  That she defies all Commers, at her Door.

  Well, yet suppose his Senses are his own,

  He lives to be chief Mourner for his Son: 380

  Before his Face his Wife and Brother burns;

  He Numbers all his Kindred in their Urns.

  These are the Fines he pays for living long;

  And dragging tedious Age, in his own wrong:

  Griefs always Green, a House-hold still in Tears, 385

  Sad Pomps, a Threshold throng’d with daily Biers;

  And Liveries of Black for Length of Years.

  Next to the Raven’s Age, the Pylian King

  Was longest liv’d of any two leg’d thing;

  Blest, to Defraud the Grave so long, to Mount 390

  His Numbred Years, and on his Right Hand Count;

  Three Hundred Seasons, guzling Must of Wine:

  But, hold a while, and hear himself Repine

  At Fates Unequal Laws; and at the Clue

  Which, Merciless in length, the midmost Sister drew. 395

  When his Brave Son upon the Fun’ral Pyre

  He saw extended, and his Beard on Fire;

  He turn’d, and Weeping, ask’d his Friends, what Crime

  Had Curs’d his Age to this unhappy Time?

  Thus Mourn’d old Peleus for Achilles slain, 400

  And thus Ulysses’s Father did complain.

  How Fortunate an End had Priam made,

  Among his Ancestors a mighty shade,

  While Troy yet stood; When Hector with the Race

  Of Royal Bastards, might his Funeral Grace: 405

  Amidst the Tears of Trojan Dames inurn’d,

  And by his Loyal Daughters truly mourn’d.

  Had Heaven so Blest him, he had Dy’d before

  The fatal Fleet to Sparta Paris bore.

  But mark what Age produc’d; he liv’d to see 410

  His Town in Flames, his falling Monarchy:

  In fine, the feeble Syre, reduc’d by Fate,

  To change his Scepter for a Sword, too late,

  His last Effort before Jove’s Altar tries

  A Souldier half, and half a Sacrifice: 415

  Falls like an Oxe, that waits the coming blow;

  Old and unprofitable to the Plough.

  At least, he Dy’d a Man, his Queen surviv’d,

  To Howl, and in a barking Body liv’d.

  I hasten to our own; Nor will relate 420

  Great Mithridates, and Rich Crœssus Fate;

  Whom Solon wisely Counsell’d to attend

  The Name of Happy, till he knew his End.

  That Marius was an Exile, that he fled,

  Was ta’ne, in Ruin’d Carthage beg’d his Bread, 425

  All these were owing to a Life too long:

  For whom had Rome beheld so Happy, Young!

  High in his Chariot and with Lawrel Crown’d,

  When he had led the Cimbrian Captives round

  The Roman Streets; descending from his State, 430

  In that Blest Hour he should have beg’d his Fate;
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  Then, then, he might have dy’d of all admir’d,

  And his Triumphant Soul with Shouts expir’d.

  Campania, Fortunes Malice to prevent,

  To Pompey an indulgent Feavour sent; 435

  But publick Pray’rs impos’d on Heav’n, to give

  Their much Lov’d Leader an unkind Reprieve.

  The Cities Fate and his, conspir’d to save

  The Head, reserv’d for an Egyptian Slave.

  Cethegus, tho a Traytor to the State, 440

  And Tortur’d, scap’d this Ignominious Fate:

  And Sergius, who a bad Cause bravely try’d,

  All of a Piece, and undiminish’d Dy’d.

  To Venus, the fond Mother makes a Pray’r,

  That all her Sons and Daughters may be Fair: 445

  True, for the Boys a Mumbling Vow she sends;

  But, for the Girls, the Vaulted Temple rends:

  They must be finish’d Pieces: ’Tis allow’d

  Diana’s Beauty made Latona Proud;

  And pleas’d, to see the Wond’ring People Pray 450

  To the New-rising Sister of the Day.

  And yet Lucretia’s Fate wou’d bar that Vow:

  And fair Virginia wou’d her Fate bestow

  On Rutila; and change her Faultless Make

  For the foul rumple of Her Camel back. 455

  But, for his Mother’s Boy, the Beau, what frights

  His Parents have by Day, what Anxious Nights!

  Form join’d with Virtue is a sight too rare:

  Chast is no Epithete to sute with Fair.

  Suppose the same Traditionary strain 460

  Of Rigid Manners in the House remain;

  Inveterate Truth, an Old plain Sabine’s Heart;

  Suppose that Nature, too, has done her part;

  Infus’d into his Soul a sober Grace,

  And blusht a Modest Blood into his Face, 465

  (For Nature is a better Guardian far,

  Than Sawcy Pedants, or dull Tutors are:)

  Yet still the Youth must ne’re arrive at Man;

  (So much Almighty Bribes and Presents can:)

  Ev’n with a Parent, where Perswasions fail, 470

  Mony is impudent, and will prevail.

  We never Read of such a Tyrant King,

  Who guelt a boy deform’d, to hear him Sing.

  Nor Nero, in his more Luxurious Rage,

  E’re made a Mistress of an ugly Page: 475

  Sporus, his Spouse, nor Crooked was, nor Lame,

  With Mountain Back, and Belly, from the Game

  Cross-barr’d: But both his Sexes well became.

  Go, boast your Springal, by his Beauty Curst

  To Ills; nor think I have declar’d the worst: 480

  His Form procures him Journey-Work; a strife

  Betwixt Town-Madams and the Merchant’s Wife:

  Guess, when he undertakes this publick War,

  What furious Beasts offended Cuckolds are.

  Adult’rers are with Dangers round beset; 485

  Born under Mars, they cannot scape the Net;

  And from Revengeful Husbands oft have try’d

  Worse handling, than severest Laws provide:

  One stabs; one slashes; one, with Cruel Art,

  Makes Colon suffer for the Peccant part. 490

  But your Endymion, your smooth, Smock-fac’d boy,

  Unrivall’d, shall a Beauteous Dame enjoy:

  Not so: One more Salacious, Rich, and Old,

  Out-bids, and buys her Pleasure for her Gold:

  Now he must Moil, and Drudge, for one he loaths, 495

  She keeps him High, in Equipage, and Cloaths:

  She Pawns her Jewels, and her Rich Attire,

  And thinks the Workman worthy of his Hire:

  In all things else immoral, stingy, mean;

  But, in her Lusts, a Conscionable Quean. 500

  She may be handsom, yet be Chast, you say;

  Good Observator, not so fast away:

  Did it not cost the Modest Youth his Life,

  Who shun’d th’ embraces of his Father’s Wife?

  And was not t’other Stripling forc’d to fly, 505

  Who, coldly, did his Patron’s Queen deny,

  And pleaded Laws of Hospitality?

  The Ladies charg’d ‘em home, and turn’d the Tail:

  With shame they redn’d, and with spight grew Pale.

  ’Tis Dang’rous to deny the longing Dame; 510

  She loses Pity, who has lost her Shame.

  Now Silius wants thy Counsel, give Advice;

  Wed Cæsar’s Wife, or Dye; the Choice is nice.

  Her Comet-Eyes she darts on ev’ry Grace;

  And takes a fatal liking to his Face. 515

  Adorn’d with Bridal Pomp she sits in State;

  The Publick Notaries and Auspex wait:

  The Genial Bed is in the Garden drest:

  The Portion paid, and ev’ry Rite express’d,

  Which in a Roman Marriage is profest. 520

  ’Tis no stol’n Wedding, this; rejecting awe,

  She scorns to Marry, but in Form of Law:

  In this moot case, your Judgment: To refuse

  Is present Death, besides the Night you lose.

  If you consent, ’tis hardly worth your pain; 525

  A day or two of Anxious Life you gain:

  Till lowd Reports through all the Town have past,

  And reach the Prince: For Cuckolds hear the last.

  Indulge thy Pleasure, Youth, and take thy swing;

  For not to take, is but the self same thing; 530

  Inevitable Death before thee lies;

  But looks more kindly through a Ladies Eyes.

  What then remains? Are we depriv’d of Will,

  Must we not Wish, for fear of wishing Ill?

  Receive my Counsel, and securely move; 535

  Intrust thy Fortune to the Pow’rs above.

  Leave them to manage for thee, and to grant

  What their unerring Wisdom sees thee want:

  In Goodness as in Greatness they excel;

  Ah that we lov’d our selves but half so well! 540

  We, blindly by our headstrong Passions led,

  Are hot for Action, and desire to Wed;

  Then wish for Heirs: But to the Gods alone

  Our future Offspring, and our Wives are known;

  Th’ audacious Strumpet, and ungracious Son. 545

  Yet not to rob the Priests of pious Gain,

  That Altars be not wholly built in vain;

  Forgive the Gods the rest, and stand confin’d

  To Health of Body, and Content of Mind:

  A Soul, that can securely Death defie, 550

  And count it Nature’s Priviledge, to Dye;

  Serene and Manly, harden’d to sustain

  The load of Life, and Exercis’d in Pain:

  Guiltless of Hate, and Proof against Desire;

  That all things weighs, and nothing can admire: 555

  That dares prefer the Toils of Hercules

  To Dalliance, Banquet, and Ignoble ease.

  The Path to Peace is Virtue: What I show,

  Thy Self may freely on Thy Self bestow:

  Fortune was never Worshipp’d by the Wise; 560

  But, set aloft by Fools, Usurps the Skies.

  The End of the Tenth Satyr.

  Juvenal: The Sixteenth Satyr

  ARGUMENT of the Sixteenth Satyr

  The Poet is this Satyr proves, that the Condition of a Souldier is much better than that of a Countryman. First, because a Country-man, however Affronted, Provok’d, and Struck himself, dares not strike a Souldier: Who is only to be judg’d by a Court-Martial: And by the Law of Camillus, which obliges him not to Quarrel without the Trenches, he is also assur’d to have a speedy hearing, and quick dispatch: Whereas, the Townsman or Peasant is delaid in his suit by frivolous Pretences, and not sure of Justice when he is heard in the Court. The Souldier is also privile
dg’d to make a Will, and to give away his Estate, which he got in War, to whom he Pleases, without Consideration of Parentage or Relations, which is deny’d to all other Romans. This Satyr was written by Juvenal when he was a Commander in Egypt: ’tis certainly his, tho I think it not finish’d. And if it be well observ’d, you will find he intended an Invective against a standing Army.

  The Sixteenth Satyr

  WHAT vast Prerogatives, my Gallus, are

  Accrewing to the mighty Man of War!

  For, if into a lucky Camp I light,

  Tho raw in Arms, and yet afraid to Fight,

  Befriend me, my good Stars, and all goes right:) 5

  One Happy Hour is to a Souldier better,

  Than Mother Juno’s recommending Letter,

  Or Venus, when to Mars she wou’d prefer

  My Suit, and own the Kindness done to Her.

  See what Our Common Priviledges are: 10

  As first no Sawcy Citizen shall dare

  To strike a Souldier, nor when struck, resent

  The wrong, for fear of farther Punishment:

  Not tho his Teeth are beaten out, his Eyes

  Hang by a String, in Bumps his Fore-head rise, 15

  Shall He presume to mention his Disgrace,

  Or Beg amends for his demolish’d Face.

  A Booted Judge shall sit to try his Cause,

  Not by the Statute, but by Martial-Laws;

  Which old Camillus order’d, to confine 20

  The Brawls of Souldiers to the Trench and Line:

  A Wise Provision; and from thence ’tis clear,

  That Officers a Souldiers Cause shou’d hear:

  And taking cognizance of Wrongs receiv’d,

  An Honest Man may hope to be reliev’d. 25

  So far ’tis well: But with a General cry,

  The Regiment will rise in Mutiny,

  The Freedom of Their Fellow Rogue demand,

  And, if refus’d, will threaten to Disband.

  Withdraw thy Action, and depart in Peace; 30

  The Remedy is worse than the Disease:

  This Cause is worthy him, who in the Hall

  Wou’d for his Fee, and for his Client bawl:

  But wou’dst Thou Friend who hast two Legs alone,

  (Which Heav’n be prais’d, Thou yet may’st call Thy own,) 35

  Wou’dst Thou to run the Gauntlet these expose

  To a whole Company of Hob-nail’d Shoos?

  Sure the good Breeding of Wise Citizens

  Shou’d teach ‘em more good Nature to their Shins.

  Besides, whom can’st Thou think so much thy Friend, 40

  Who dares appear thy Business to defend?

  Dry up thy Tears, and Pocket up th’ Abuse,

  Nor put thy Friend to make a bad excuse:

  The Judge cries out, Your Evidence produce.

  Will He, who saw the Souldier’s Mutton Fist, 45