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SATIRA I.

V. I-IO.

O curas hominum! ô quantum est in rebus inane !
Quis leget hæc, min' tu istud ais, nemo Hercule, nemo ?
Vel duo, vel nemo, turpe et miserabile, quare?
Ne mihi Polydamas, et Troiades Labeonem
Prætulerint, nugæ, non, si quid turbida Roma
Elevet, accedas : examenve improbum in illa
Castiges trutina : nec te quæsiveris extra.
Nam Romæ est quis non ? ac, si fas dicere: sed fas
Tunc, cum ad canitiem, et nostrum istud vivere triste
Aspexi, et nucibus facimus quæcunque relictis,

SATIRE I.

PERSIUS AND MONITOR.

VERSE I-20.

PERSIUS.

UNHAPPY men lead lives of care and pain,
Their joys how fleeting, and their hopes how vain!
M. But who will read a satire so begun?
P.What this to me- -this-M. Faith, I'll tell you, none.
P. None, do you say? M. Why, yes, perhaps a few;
But still the number will dishonour you.
P. Lest a lewd prince and his abandon'd throng
Bestow the laurel on a minion's song;
And must we then reserve the sacred bays
For those whom Rome's worst profligates shall praise?
Rely not always on the general voice;
Nor place all merit in the people's choice;
Let your own eyes be those with which you see ;
Nor seek in others, what yourself should be.
For who at Rome does not ?-Dare I speak plain ?
I dare, I must,—to check my rage were vain.
My spleen o’erflows, I sicken to behold
A guilty world, in error growing old;
Each stage of life mark'd by its empty joys,
The infant and the man exchanging toys;

Cum sapimus patruos: tunc, tunc, ignoscite. Nolo:
Quid faciam ? sed sum petulanti splene cachinno.
Scribimus inclusi, numeros ille, hic pede liber,
Grande aliquid, quod pulmo animæ prælargus anhelet.
Scilicet hæc populo, pexusque togaque recenti,
Et natalitia tandem cum sardonyche albus,
Sede leges celsa, liquido cum plasmate guttur
Mobile conlueris, patranti fractus ocello.
Heic, neque more probo videas, neque voce serena,
Ingentes trepidare Titos, cum carmina lumbum
Intrant, et tremulo scalpuntur ubi intima versu.
Tun'vetule auriculis alienis colligis escas?
Auriculis, quibus et dicas cute perditus, ohe.
Quò didicisse, nisi hoc fermentum, et quæ semel intus
Innata est, rupto jecore exierit caprificus?
En pallor, seniumque. ô mores! usque adeone

Triumphant vice and folly bearing sway,
With doting age and vanity grown grey.
M. But imitate the rest. See, they compose,
In secret, polish'd verse, and sounding prose.
P. Until, at length, demanded by the crowd,
The turgid nonsense be rehearsed aloud,
See, at the desk the pale declaimer stand;
The ruby beaming on his lily hand;
Behind his back his wanton tresses flow;
With Tyrian dyes his splendid garments glow;
His pliant throat the liquid gargle clears;
His languid eye lasciviously leers;
The voice accords with the luxurious mien,
The look immodest, with the tongue obscene :
Around him close the splendid circle draws,
Loud is the laugh, tumultuous the applause ;
And Rome's first nobles, vanquish'd by his lyre,
Tremble with lusts which his lewd lays inspire.
you,

old dotard, do you waste your days, That fools, at length, may surfeit you with praise ?" Old M. “What, shall we live despised, without a name, “Callous to glory, and unknown to fame? As the wild fig-tree walls and columns cleaves, " And clads the ruin with its mantling leaves; “ So all restraint indignant genius scorns, “ Luxuriant spreads, and as it spreads adorns.” P. Lo, what decrepid age for fame endures! Lo, the pale victim whom her voice allures !

of health illumes your languid eye, And on your cheek youth's faded roses die.

And

No ray

Scire tuum nihil est, nisi te scire hoc sciat alter ?
At pulchrum est digito monstrari, et dicier, hic est.
Ten' cirratorum centum dictata fuisse
Pro nihilo pendas? ecce inter pocula quærunt
Romulidæ saturi, quid dia poëmata narrent.
Heic aliquis, cui circum humeros hyacinthina læna est,
Rancidulum quiddam balba de nare locutus,
Phyllidas, Hypsipylas, vatum et plorabile si quid,
Eliquat; et tenero supplantat verba palato.
Assensere viri : nunc non cinis ille poëtæ
Felix? non levior cippus non imprimit ossa ?
Laudant convivæ: nunc non è manibus illis,
Nunc non è tumulo, fortunataque favilla,
Nascentur violæ ? rides, ait, et nimis uncis
Naribus indulges : an erit qui velle recuset
Os populi meruisse : et cedro digna locutus,
Linquere nec scombros metuentia carmina, neç thus ?
Quisquis es, ô modo quem ex adverso dicere feci,
Non ego, cum scribo, si fortè quid aptius exit,

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