« PredošláPokračovať »
Hunc, Macrine, diem numera meliore lapillo,
Qui tibi labentes apponit candidus annos.
Funde merum Genio, non tu prece poscis emaci,
Quæ nisi seductis nequeas committere divis.
At bona pars procerum tacita libabit acerra.
Haud cuivis promptum est, murmurque, humilesque
susurros Tollere de templis, et aperto vivere voto. Mens bona, fama, fides, hæc clarè, et ut audiat hospes :
Let a white stone of pure unsullied ray
Record, Macrinus, this thy natal day, ini .
Which not for thee the less auspicious shines, ".
That years revolve, and closing life declines....!!
Haste then to celebrate this happy hour,
And large libations to thy Genius pour..
With splendid gifts you ne'er will seek the shrine,
To tempt the power you worship as divine.
To venal nobles you consign the task,
To wish in secret, and in secret ask ;
Let them for this before the altar bow;
And breathe unheard the mercenary vow:
Let them for this upon the votive urn
Mute offerings make, and midnight incense burn.
It ill might suit the selfish and the proud,
Were the grand objects of their lives avow'd ;
Were all the longings of their souls express’d,
No latent wish left lurking in the breast.
When truth or virtue is the boon we seek,
We can distinctly ask, and clearly speak;
Illa sibi introrsum, et sub lingua immurmurat: Ô si
Ebullit patrui præclarum funus! et, ô si
Sub rastro crepet argenti mihi seria dextro
Hercule! pupillumve utinam, quem proximus hæres
Impello, expungam! namque est scabiosus, et acri
Bile tumet. Nerio jam tertia ducitur uxor.
Hæc sanctè ut poscas, Tiberino in gurgite mergis
Mane caput bis, terque, et noctem flumine purgas. '.
Heus age, responde, minimum est quod scire laboro ;.
De Jove quid sentis ? estne, ut præponere cures
Hunc, cuinam ? cuinam ? vis Staio ? an scilicet hæres,
Quis potior judex, puerisve quis aptior orbis ?" .
But when the guilty soul throws off disguise,
Then whisper'd prayers, and mutter'd vows arise.
O in his grave were my old uncle laid, “ And at his tomb funereal honours paid ! “ O Hercules, when next I rake the soil, “ With a rich treasure recompence my toil! “ Or might I, Gods, to my young ward succeed, “ Urge on his fate, nor Heaven condemn the deed; “ The sickly child already seems to pine, “ And bile and ulcer hasten his decline. “ Three times hath Hymen's torch for Nerius burn'd, “ Three times hath he to widowhood return'd.” And now, fanatic wretch, to purge your soul, Plunge where the sacred waves of Tiber roll; To them each morn the night's foul stains convey, And in their waters wash your crimes away. To one plain question honestly reply: What are your thoughts of him who rules the sky ? As all our judgments rest on what we know, And good is still comparative below; Is there a man whom ev'n as Jove you prize, Like him believe beneficent and wise? What, are you doubtful ? such may Staius be? Who is the juster judge, or Jove or he ? But let me ask, to Staius did you say One half of what you utter when you pray, Would he not from you with abhorrence turn, And you and all your bribes indignant spurn?