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JOHN STRADLING’S EPIGRAMS
BOOK ONE
Since this book contains a miscellany of
epitaphs, odes, and epigrams, are you perplexed what title it should
bear? Let my book be a forest, let a poem be a tree in it, with verses
for branches and words for leaves. Trees’ appearance, nature, and use
are not all the same. This one is useful for building, that one for the
fireplace.
The poems I wrote in play as a youth I publish
at a more advanced age, for the criticisms of young men and the
judgment of their elders.
Whatever Memphis has that is wonderful, Corinth
that is costly, Troy that is ancient, Greece that is magnificent, Rome
that is sacred, Campania that is delightful, Tuscany that is subtle, or
the Spaniards that is opulent, whatever of wealth is at Venice,
whatever of learning is at Athens, the capital of the Britons may call
this all its own.
Formerly your weapons were your teeth and your
tongue. The former were harmful, the latter even more so. Lately your
teeth have fallen out and now you are toothless. But in truth I would
prefer you were tongueless. The Fates forbid this to occur, for every
woman comes equipped with a tongue. Do you lack a tongue? You would
wrongly be called a woman.
Unless priests have the ability to marry or
burn, 
what will they do? Tell them they should
have died to the world.
On the brink of marrying a young man, Gellia
refused to say her vows if his bona fides were not enhanced
by testimony. The lad agreed, and summoned many, great and sharp of
eye. She, slyly smiling, replied thus: “It’s enough for me if there be
two test-imonies, hidden and small. Without these, there’ll
be no marriage with me.”
Thus you hide in your loyal heart secrets which
should be kept silent at home, thus you learn what should be published
abroad, that I am doubtful whether your prudence or your virtue is the
greater. By this virtue, you are beyond doubt a great man in regard to
both.
Sole hope of the Stradlings, a knight who
deduces his pedigree in straight descent from the stock of our first
William, though you sit in the seat consecrated to
Donat the martyr, and gaze on the lofty castle which comes from your
ancient forebears, a man distinguished by the portraits of your
ancestors, yet more distinguished yourself, who passes on to these men the glory that your family has passed on to
you, elevate your mind and ornament your ancestors with new virtues.
You may always enter into noble enterprises, you who as a young men
came on foot to the wandering Rhone, the two-horned Rhine, and the
ever-wandering Tiber, from where, having wandered the territories
of these regions, you came home safe, more cultivated in learning.
Hence your wit is astute, hence your experience is greater, this was
the supreme glory of Ulysses. Nor did you repent the tedium
and the hard labor: with a reward of praise, that effort was light
enough. Therefore, mindful of your family and your earlier glories, now
you are an old man wholly pious in the love of your nation. Live, old
man, and long may Lachesis draw out your thread, and the Penelope-like
consort of your life. And thus, when the Sisters have spun out your
thread, and the day comes which is not hateful for a brave man, your
spirit will go flying free to the citadels of the heavens, but your
life will be an example for posterity.
While I am devising something worthy of you, my
slack hand droops and, exhausted, the power of my talent fails me. At
the same time I perceive so much to be praised, which can be listed by
no man’s talent and no man’s art. Rather, each thing must be treated
separately, and no man can write of so many in verse, or paint them on
canvas. Though you are known to me in your entirety, yet I know of
nothing you possess within yourself which does not deserve my praise.
If they are illustrious who demonstrate
illustrious deeds, I cannot see who would be more illustrious than
yourself. Bright you shone in the West, bright in the East. Where the
sun shows itself, your praise widely resounds.
Rhys, venerable among my friends for your hoary
locks, but even more so for your faithful probity, to whom Angelsey
gave your native soil, Wales your lineage, Italy your wit,
and Sienna your degree, Stradling sends you this page
in lieu of a gift, accept these presents (old man), of whatever quality
they man be. Although, Rhys, you became well-known by traversing
Europe, perhaps you will be better known thanks to this page. But let
pages perish, let whatever is on them be erased. I will be dear to you,
you will be dear in my heart.
Lately gripped with a tertian ague (sometimes
hot, and then chilled), I was quite weak, Leyson. The disease attacked
me more savagely, it vexed and tortured me. Then, in the dumps, I
brooded on a method of cure. Thus I spoke: “I’ll take flight to my
Leyson, to Leyson I’ll describe my pains, I’ll seize my Leyson’s
charms, I’ll make trial of the Leysonian arts.” It was miraculous how
the little fever’s fury abated, how the disease suddenly retreated. It
either envied me my Leyson, or feared for itself because of my Leyson.
Greatest Aristotle, with the greatest art and
effort desiring to explain the greatest good to his pupils, placed the
greatest in the Mean. You, more careful than him, make us go to the
greatest great good. What is the greatest great good? The only God, and
you greatly make Him to be the greatest good.
Sextilianus promised to produce a volume with
skill and polish, but first of all he wanted it to be advertised by
royal licence that only his printer could sell it. When the book
finally came out and only a rare buyer came to the shop, the
typographer perceived that the copyright de imprimendo solum was
purchased in vain.
You are not mine unless you are wholly mine. A
single girl belongs to no man when she is serves many men as a mistress.
With art Galla assists her teeth, scabrous with
foul grunge, and the stench of her reeking chest. And no matter how
swarthy nature has created her face, by her art she cleverly makes it
fair. Though she belongs to the number of the flat of feet, and is
hunchbacked from birth, with womanly art she conceals these blemishes.
Then, decked out, she regards herself in the mirror, and says, “Art
helps out nature.” That statement is quite sure. Behold, to you nature
was an unkind stepmother. If art should not come to the rescue, how
defective you’d be! Pray tell me, Galla, since you have been chaste all
along, why by this evil art have you the deceptions of a whore?
Therefore you could scarcely rightly be called a daughter of either
nature or art, but you are an obscene bastard.
Lo, I send you the fruits of my talents,
whatever they may be. For the earth has borne me no fruits. But it has
given you more, your talent has given you less. Give me a share of
those things of which you have a copious supply.
In life, for you Hell and Heaven are myths. In
death, you wretch, you yourself will be a part of Hell.
Let historians recount your deeds. If your tomb
should say, “Here lies renowned Parma,” that is sufficient.
You two could make up a single professor, Aulus,
if the goat had your gown, or you his beard.
Pallas wit, Venus beauty, and Juno empire: these
three, Elizabeth, have granted these three things to you.
Cotta promised me a gift small and sapient, and
lately he gave me small gift which is sappy and stupid.
Albeit form gives you a name, you are devoid of
substance, rightly to be called a formal man.
There is a honeyed drink commonly called mead,
but its nature is understood to be twofold. The purer is a honeyed
liquor, the less pure has an admixture of various herbs. Bacchus makes
both kinds pleasing. It is a medicinal drink, the medication derives
from the herbs. Thus the pure kind is less beneficial. But honey is a
distillation of herbs. Why do they mix infuse herbs in something that
cherishes the spirits of herbs within itself?
If my Muse should be able to tell you,
Stradling, what will make you long-lived and hale, you will not have to
hunt for a second Hippocrates or a second Alexis, I by myself would give you both. Whatever
medication is brought from the fragrant Indies, whatever the aromatic
Arab sells to sailors, whatever cure-all comes from Egypt, Rome, or
rich Spain, this will all be yours. But my Muse can scarcely promise
such a gift, this is an effort more worthy of Phoebus’ art. Ah, how
difficult it is to understand the hidden powers which clever nature has
given in herbs! He who is prudently skilled in their uses would be a
second Apollo among mortals. By these Medea shamefully pied her arts,
from these Circe gathered each of her poisons. From this source all
medicine flows, as from its fountain, from this comes every poison and
antidote. So does all power of medicine exist in herbs, and is there
such a great usage of herbs among physicians? There is no need to seek
an antidote from the distant Indies, every land will provide safe
remedies for the ailing. But now medicine does not seem a difficult
business: the busy bee reveals that which lies hidden. With eager
industry the little bee brings home to its cells whatever healing thing
is born in herbs. Why does the money-grubbing pharmacist put his bitter
elixirs on sale for the foolish people? Lo, a sweeter and better means
of health has been found, especially known, Stradling, to your Leyson.
Leyson commends honeyed potions to his friends, in honeyed song he
sings of honeyed wine. If there is any healing virtue in waters, or in
herbs, that honeyed Bacchus grasps this all. It humidifies the arid, it
breaks up the stone, it heals ulcers, it is death for death, life for
life, and for your life it is wellness. So, Leyson, I want you as my
physician, for you win every point, you who mix the sweet with the
useful. You are wholly honeyed. In honeyed fashion you write, speak,
and act. So you are a wholly honeyed man.
Whoever casts his eye on this tomb, let him
stand still, and he will learn whose ashes this urn contains. This man
once shone in the citadel of Donat’s, a castle long ennobled by his
forebears. All-conquering time had consumed this castle, but you see it
almost renewed by this man’s wit. But while he was in the mid-course of
restoring its walls, and preparing a more splendid home for his old
age, black death took envy on the man and closed him up in his grave.
There is a heaven for his soul, this is the home of his body. Do not
complain, old man, there are these consolations: the Fates will give
your son whatever they have stolen from you.
Perchance, Publius, seeing my epigrams and
sticking at the title, you exclaim that vain jests are being purveyed.
You deny that you have anything to do with the filthy and wanton
epigram, and that Scripture alone pleases you. So that no supply of
levity be available to our youth (with you playing the censor), you
would wish only sacred matter to be read in accordance with your
advice. He who has experience of your character and habits, how as a
careful hypocrite you hide in sheep’s clothing, would be able to say
(contrary what an ancient once did), that your page is chaste enough,
but your life very sordid.
Gellius, why complain that this rude hound uses
its nose to probe the ass of a puppy, your girl’s pet, which makes you
indignant when it is treated so rudely? Forgive the dog, Gellus, and
this unworthy thing he has done. You should do the same to its master.
Sober at times (but sparingly), Lungius praises
the cups he has already quaffed with his unclean mouth. And, says he,
the wondrous virtue in wine is this, that it dries out the moist and
warms up the chilly. “By nature, the same power is innate in wine, of
the wet and the dry, the cold and the warm. When I am ailing, no better
medicine for me than must, whether my limbs are feverish or shivering.
If a noxious humor seeps into my faint frame, drying wines will be my
remedy. Or if dire thirst constricts my choking throat, this is my
nostrum, I drink moist must. Good swigs of fine wine cure all manner of
ills, this medication has nought of fraud or deceit. Let dolts commend
Galen and Hippocrates, physicians who are pleased only by bitter drugs.
But my art is better, for it mixes the pleasant with the useful. Get
away from me, you stern crew of doctors.”
I sing you first Galatea, a wanton girl, a
maiden worthy, Ovid, of your measures. Lungiadian Muses, assist your
bard, so that Galatea will be famous by my humble verses. You, Galatea,
the forests hymn, the crossroads acclaim you, the mountain-dwelling
nymphs and Dryads adore you. Learned Catullus, Lesbia is celebrated in
your meters; Naso, fair Corinna has given you your glories, and other
poets praise other girls. The earnest bard Lungius will sing you with
all the art he can. From head to heels, girl, you are wholly fair, a
giant in genius, a little bunny in body. Your face is like the moon,
your hair is longer than a horse’s tail, you have the eyes of a cat.
Your nose gleams in the middle of your face like the beak of a dove, in
voice you surpass the tuneful peacock. You match Atlas in your
shoulders, your neck is like that of a goose, I may compare your arms
to flexible vines. I own a cow. Though it is nursing two calves with
its udder, the udder is lesser than your breasts. You are thin in the
middle, and you can match the swift hounds. Who knows the rest, which
lie hidden, unobserved? All this is handsome. Therefore you, Galatea,
ennobled by my verses, are handsome. I am not surprised if the crew of
buggers envy me for you, and envy you for me your bard, such a famed
girl for such a famed man.
You wish to learn, traveller, whose is this
uninscribed tomb? Stop, stay your step a little while, you’ll learn his
unknown name. In this grave lies Tarlton, the prince of clowns produced
by England’s soil. With him dead, the spurned Muses of comedy and
tragedy are silent in confusion. Mutely they long for their glory of
the stage, and sardonic Laughter is gone. Here is buried the British
Roscius, than whom none was better known. Depart,
traveler. If his name still eludes you, any boy can tell you.
A pot (olla ) lacking a bottom, let
nothing fill it. Aula is like a bottomless pit. He keeps whatever he
gets.
Going up Holborn, she imagined she was mounting
to heaven. Going down Tyburne, this witch makes her way to the Styx. *
* Up Holburne, downe Tyburne.
I do not know why he who sells smoke should
perish by the same. It is more reasonable that he should perish who
insanely buys it.
* - Tobacco.
That you are long-lived, nor prey to any
disease, you say this is the work of your wit and your art. You are
mad, you chatterbox. But do you yearn to learn the reason? Shrewd Pluto
granted you to be an old man, for he understands this: while you live,
on the Styx the boat of Hell’s Charon will never be empty.
Lo, executioner Bull lies buried here, a rascal
very well-known in this thronging city. The bull and the butcher (it’s
a novel thing) lie here together, a bloody burial! In death men and
women, babes, gaffers, good men, bad men, cut-throats, thieves, and
whores, as many as roam throughout the city, join in mourning him. Oh
executioner thrice blessed for these lamentations! But tell me the
cause for this sorrow, that they weep for him in death, whom before
they had loathed? Namely this: everybody hoped he’d die by the noose,
his head put up on a pole, his body given to the birds, his liver to
the dancing fire. Alas, this hope is dashed! Bull lies buried here.
This is the cause of the lamentation, hence the tears are falling.
You say, Balbus, that just one poem out of all
of mine pleases you. Oh how this one poem displeases me, which you say
delights you!
Mascallus had heard Ovidius Naso, Diogenes, and
witty Martial (whose names constantly fly about on the mouths of the
learned) be called snooty in Latin, and immediately he began to ponder
whether being snooty meant to have a nose per se. He thought
this rang strange to the ears, for otherwise we should all be called
snooty. But at length he remembered this dictionary definition, “to
have a big nose.” Straightway he ran about all over the city, seeing if
any pharmacist or physician (learned in playing with the potions of
Colchis) could create a huge nose. The fools knew not how. A tavern was
hard by, thirstily and anxiously he entered. There he saw all his boon
companions, draining their cups and thoroughly drunk, and he perceived
that they all came well-equipped with large noses. He took his seat and
drank with them until nightfall, and the drank through the night until
dawn. Thus he acted three hundred and ten times, and soon he became a
little large of nose. Nor did he cease making progress in the art until
his nose stuck out like wine-jar, ornamented with pustules and gems, so
that neither Ovid, nor Martial himself surpassed Mascallus in the honor
of his nose.
What gift shall I give to my Leyson, a
distinguished physician, poet and friend, who by his unique letters,
filled with wit, has blessed me with a threefold gift? With his
admonitions he forestalled my wanton inclinations, fearing for my
flighty youth. Then he sent me an elegant poem of Crott’s, who burning
with fires for the girl of the Arno, would have wretchedly turned
into ashes, unless his profuse showers of weep had not quenched the
sparks of the fire. And on the other hand, he would have dissolved into
a sodden flood, if the Arno girl’s bright little
eyes, darkly flashing light sparks, had not quickly dried out his
flowing fluids.
Suffering
greatly from the four-day ague, Thynne has very elegantly adapted these
verses. While shivering during a feverish chill he boiled thanks to his
darling’s eyes, and when she snarled rather peevishly, he endured the
fever’s flame-spewing heats.
What
wretch could have endured such hardships, who was hot while chilly, and
chilly while hot? Without doubt, no man could, who has not well
demonstrated that he is a wholly charred Charlie. Go now, unkind and
unlovely fever, you have attacked Thynne for a very long time, who is
more than sufficiently slender and emaciated. Pray rage against the
bodies of stouter gentlemen, who are swollen with gluttony or bloated
with fine wine, very shameless tosspots. But this man, whom a meager
diet nourishes, who is always and always gratified by a sparing
sustenance, to whom the gods have given the name of Thynne, why by
starvation do you make him Thynner?
But,
Leyson, in exchange for your sweet-sounding scripture, may all the gods
and goddesses who are versed in Galen’s art grant you to heal with an
adroit hand all maladies hot and cold.
Who would imagine that among the chilly British,
the neighbors of the northern signs of the two dippers and the icy
Bear, vines loaded down with honey-like clusters
would pour out clear fine wine there? This seems unwonted for nature,
but let it be so. Clever genius adorns nature, and makes an estate full
of sharp brambles productive for human use. This, Stradling, you
abundantly teach by your example, and with justice your descendants
will praise your pious zeal, and industrious posterity will learn to
pursue your most useful efforts, which the climate (I think) benignly
favors, as does the soil, because the handsome circle of the place
should show this, safe on all sides from blustering winds. There the
East wind will not issue his stern gusts, nor will the savage North
wind stir up sudden storms, or the West wind hurl there its harmful
commotions. Only the most South wind will blow its fructifying breezes,
and the early Titan will draw off noxious moistures, happily provide
his fostering onbreathings. Likewise the kindly governess of the
nocturnal life will destroy pestilential plagues with her shining
fires, and cast a light dew on the damp vine-shoots. So, son of Semele,
you sower of the swelling grape, with a good
will daily foster this vineyard with a juicy aroma, and likewise
refresh it with welcome warmth, so that the trunks of the vines be bent
over, hidden by the fruit, and that the winepress be soaked with
fragrant must, such as the Falernian vine will envy, and sweeter than
sugary nectar.
I am not surprised that medicines are for sale
by doctors, wares by craftsmen, tongues by lawyers. If proverbs tell us
the truth, the clergyman is not accustomed to perform his rites save
for coin.*
* - “No penny, no paternoster.”
You think that the verses I have written are not
epigrams, but satires, Lolianus. Elsewhere, you rail at me because they
are too short, so that I scarcely know by what means I can please you.
I desire that you be given full power over my verses: you are learned,
add your method. Removing the ends of the few which are two long, and
joining the short, equalize both kinds. According to your judgment, mix
all the short ones together into one, so that many distichs make up a
single jumble. Thus when a horse’s neck is added to a human head, you will produce an epigram that is
ridiculous (and this is its chief merit).
Balbus, with furrowed brow you condemn my book.
The highest praise is not to have displeased you.
Worst offspring of the worst of mothers, you copy of your
mother’s seductive allure, why to you openly prostitute your body to
the common people, more wanton than any bitch? Because you are called a
daughter of the common people, for that reason do you rejoice in being
common?
Balbus, you exclaim that my poems are too sharp.
I would wish they were sharper in the part where they vex you.
A painter was vying in words with a physician,
and (both skilled craftsmen) each one lauded his art. The physician
promoted his nostrums, sure indications of health. “This bids the
patient spit out his indomitable fever, lest headache move him, or
gripings of the gut. Let him not dread gout, or the Neapolitan pox.
Thanks to me, the physician, health is assured.” To whom responded the
painter, “And who does not know my art is excellent? By my genius, I
imitate nature, my learned art manufactures a devises a thousand kinds
of bird, a thousand of men. By my art, painted kings survive after
death, and things which lack life you would imagine to be alive. You
promise me sound health while I live, but (thanks to me, the artist)
you will be reborn after death.” The doctor grew heated and scorned the
speaker, saying “My art is true, yours is a simulation.” Replied the
painter, “This simulation of mine is without blame, nor does a painted
canvas harm anyone. Medicine often does damage, a false health lurks
within your potions, but a death scarce simulated arrives. Which art is
better, to push the living into death, or to make the dead resemble the
living?” The other replied, “I yield. The glory of the painter and the
physician are equal, even if this one is the best, and that one the
worst.”
If we are Trojans, and for us this is
Troynovant, as he is to his Greeks, so you are our Homer.
You often swear, Thais that you are sought after
by many a man, but that you boldly deny them. You wish to appear
chaste. Come, good Thais, tell me, why have so many suitors sought? You
keep your silence. Whether you deny them, or whether you grant them
their wishes, it’s all the same. Each suitor has not sought after you
in the same way, but they were all seeking the same thing.
Rufus criticizes my poems because they reek of
midnight oil. Pray where did you get this keen dog-like nose? Since
your own verses (such as they are) stink like a turd, Rufus, you
scribble your little verses and shit at the same time.
While fisherman Longus hunted the careless fish
with his quivering rod by your banks, Exe, drowsily he took a bad fall
into the river, and he became bait for the very fish he was hunting.
A man is a brief thing, so why are you called
Longus? The thing does not agree with its name. You are a silly thing.
Arts were not lacking for you, Sidney, nor
warlike virtue, nor a race mighty in nobility. You excelled in both
body and genius (which a rare thing), yet the glory of your genius was
greater. Alas, the fatal Sisters envied you alone, and snatched you out
of the way in the midst of your youth. Though you are taken away by a
premature death, your reputation will thrive forever, knowing no
eclipse.
Do you lie, Philip, hidden beneath this mass of
stone; beneath this mass of stone, Philip, do you lie? But your fame
goes a-running throughout the vaulted world, and bears your name to the
opposing Antipodes.
Since beneath this single marble both my parents
lie conjoined, unless I should be made of marble, as a poet I must
strive to honor this blessed marble. You, oh beloved Graces and eternal
Muses, aid this bard. Alas, my shattered mind is stunned, all the grace
of my tongue flees, the pen falls from my hand. Where have my
accustomed feet fled? Where is my sad iambic, or my tearful
hendecasyllables? What dementia torments your breast, Stradling,
helpless with your doleful metres? Lo, tears stain my cheeks, only my
weeping lyric fails me in my misery. Those whom the loyal pledges of
the marriage-bed joined together so well sleep together, shut up in
this tomb. Love joined them in life, nor did death, envying these best
of mortals, separate them. Let the Mausoleum envy you, happy marble,
for your guests. But now I, born accustomed to the sacred Muses, am
ashamed of my stupor. Sorrow stifles my genius, I ransom it with my
piety, a bad bard but a pious son.
Dead, Young, you lie in the very tomb you
selected in life, made of rough-hewn marble. There was no hateful pomp
at his rites (he refused it), for a modest tomb pleased him more. The
lofty manor he had erected sufficed, where his dear nephew might
refresh himself. Why should we put up marble he would have disliked? A
smaller urn received the ashes of Caesar. How good that a well-known
man who had traveled the world could be content with so small a grave!
He possesses a nobler mind who cares less for his body, so he may have
more care for his mind.
I pray you, whatever traveler is present let the
tomb built for this foreign girl be sacred to you. She was a maiden
born of Welsh stock, she was the dear daughter of Stradling, an
excellent soldier. She surpassed her sex in counsel, her years in her
manners. When she accompanied her mistress (whom she called her mother
instead) to distant Spanish shores, death separated her (all that death
can do, let it be right to say), death very treacherous to loyal souls.
Give your tears, I ask you to pity her hoary father, whoever approaches
this tomb, whoever is reading this inscription. Yet she was happy in
life, blessed in death, as to die to the world is to live, and life is
to die.
As a gift, wife Gellia gave her husband three
daughters, lovable and pretty, worth whatever Crassus would give, a hundred silver talents. By all
the goddesses, tell me how much the husband owes his wife for these
three daughters? For before she gave them gratis, none of
them was his.
Old man Largus is almost burst from eating, from
drinking he’s swollen like a filled-up wineskin. His eyes are
bloodshot, his heart palpitates within, sweat pour down his face in
foul drops, and his fiery visage exudes black fumes. He can scarce
catch his breath, then he says in a husky voice, as best he can, “Oh
abstinence, my summum bonum!”
I know not, Cotta, why you loathe sacred poets,
and claim they’re a lying race of men. Lately you wrote poems, without
Apollo’s aid, and (strange thing) there is no grace in your verses.
Nobody is more insubstantial than you, nobody more a liar. So why
didn’t you produce better poems? Presumably a poet’s repute is to be
sought from some other source. You are a liar, Cotta, yet you are no
poet.
60. TO HIS FRIEND, THE
PHYSICIAN JOHN RHYS, WHEN I FIRST GAVE
TO HIM MY DIALOGUE ON
HAVING CONTEMPT FOR LIFE AND
DEATH
Lo, Rhys, I am sending you my little book in
lieu of a gift. However it may strike others, it is new to you.
Pondering the things which I, a youth, fictitiously attribute to an old
man, and moved by the novelty of the thing, you will exclaim, “Thus,
Stradling, you introduce me speaking after my manner, that it is
obvious my nature has not eluded you.”
Lately, while I was suffering from the ague, I
hoped that three physicians be given me, one loyal, one witty, and one
well-skilled. “Where (said I) will these three physicians be found? Woe
is me! If one of the three be lacking, now no salvation will remain for
me as I perish.” Straightway Leyson, the physician of Bath, came to my
mind. “I shall ask for this single physician to be given me. He can
serve for them all, he’s loyal, witty, and well-skilled.”
Once the sea was open for me, the world
circumnavigated, and it allowed me to go and return through its
turnings. Now it has opened for my soul a route to the gods above, and
likewise given a soft tomb, my body lifeless. There is no home for me
on earth, the main is habitable for no man. The world is my exile, the
heaven my sure homeland.
By the sea I found wealth and procured a
reputation. Thetis’ floods are uncertain, the wave is changeable, but
human life is more fragile than these things.
Are you lying, my brother, are you lying? And do
you heedlessly keep silent as your brother speaks? Do you mutely keep
silent? Alas, was I not able to hear your final words, clasp your hand
in mind, nor touch your eyes with my fingers, or give my dying brother
pious kisses? But, dearest brother, you are a part of my soul, accept
this gift from a willing brother. Take this office of piety, and your
sacred tomb will speak to our late descendants: “A brother constructed
me for a brother, a friend for a friend, both a friend and a brother.”
If piety and probity of morals had granted life, you would
have lived, brother, who now have a tomb. You have died, piety and
probity live forever. Alas, may it not be my lot to die so sadly!
While, removed from your homeland, you sought a
homeland, and, an exile in the world, you thought of the heavenly City,
first you departed from here to the West and wandered there for twice
five years. Borne to Brazil, a transplanted colonist, you lived far
removed from here. Then at length you returned to Lisbon, and then came
back to your ancestral home. Than, a wanderer, you accompanied Drake to
the West Indies, and, returning, did not watch him return. And still
not obtaining a homeland, you hastened to Eastern climes to roam there.
Here is granted your longed-for repose, a most welcome end to your
labors has come to you here. Hence as a guest, Stradling, you have
safely gained your homeland, happily you fly to the stars.
In a part of yourself, you are weighted down
beneath hard marble; a part has sought the heaven and is enjoying God.
Earth conceals that part’s obscenity, You wash off this part’s filth,
Christ, with Your cleansing blood. Thus you wholly shine, Stradling,
both clean (mundus) and pious, but we are unclean (immundi),
as many was the world (mundus) possesses.
Our number decreases, and from this may our
concord grow greater. Strength united with itself usually grows
stronger. Three men, three brothers, three friends are counted. I think
we are one in heart, and nine in strength.
A great general of the happy Welsh, for the
hardy Welsh a famed second Hector, wise, aggressive, excellent at arms
and art, whose fame flies wide throughout the world, a soldier dear to
his own, but terrible to his enemies, Norris: you ask why he lies here,
shut in this small grave? Do not Hercules and Hector, that Trojan, and
world-conquering Alexander lie hidden by earth, their heads covered by
turf? The land covers us all, and a heritage of earth remains for all
the dead. But his reputation grips the entire world. By this, our
general lives and thrives in death. So death has not taken life from
him, but granted it.
I pray you, whatever traveler passes by on this
way, do not scorn this tomb, but may the shade of a stout general move
you. And (if you have any piety) may the fate of this blameless old man
move you, by which his nation has received a death-dealing wound.
Morgan lies here, whom Belgium lately knew, England has honored, and
the enemy throng dreads. So weep, Flanders (you have wept), weep,
British, and learn, you youths, to imitate an old man’s deeds, so that
the enemy may not harry our men with impunity, and Virtue will not let
her own be oppressed. If any traces of your fathers remain in our
minds, should we not be able to scorn our vaunting foes? ’
Why vex this tomb and trouble the shade of a
right brave captain with your tears? Do these things befit Williams’
funeral, weeping and wailing, tears? He who was more pleased by cannon
and the drums of war, and the blare of the brass bugle? Go far away,
you who pour forth heavy plaints from your heart in womanly wise. Do
your weeping elsewhere, for not even Roger’s shade will tolerate
grieving, his heart endures in death, he whose martial fury the
Spaniards, the Belgians, and the French keenly felt. Nobody rushed more
eagerly against the enemy battle-line with a shining sword. Though he
fought with varying success as horseman and on foot, and often received
a wound, he was unconquered in his strength and his spirit, and was
taken off by no foeman’s sword, but by that of death.
72. FOR HIS COUSIN ELIZABETH
PORTMAN, WIFE OF THE RIGHT NOBLE LORD THOMAS
PAWLET, A MOST CHOICE
WOMAN
You who are woman dearer to me than my own eyes
(woe is me) lie lifeless here before my unhappy eyes. Whither, alas,
have your beauty, your rosy hue, the grace of your tongue, whither has
the sweet grace of your snow-white face fled? Ah Parcae, very savage
and indiscriminate, nobility, beauty and charm leave you unmoved! Let
it be thus. But let it be permitted to us to add honors to her burial
rites, our plaints, our murmurs and tears. Pour nectar on her tomb,
boy, offer incense to her grave. Of her own volition the earth will
produce crocus, violets, and roses. And you, whoever pass by on this
road, give gentle words. This honor is said to belong to the deceased.
Who should be larger than you, Maximus? Whoever
(even if he is no different in size) is smaller than you in his own
opinion.
There are those who deride epigrams, perhaps
because an epigram wittily stings themselves and their habits. Many
poets supply stuff merely to raise a laugh. You purvey poems such as
fill the reader with your sense and your judgment. Then your judgement
and wit thus shine in them, more than is usually exists in large poems
The physician and the jurisprudent are both
hateful to layman, and laymen are even more hateful to the both of you.
If a bad case or a bad body fails, at the same time the legal and
medical arts fail in the eyes of the layman.
As your money grows, Ponticus, why does your
love of money grow likewise? You love it alone, to the extent it grows.
And as your love of it grows, your love of everything else wanes. Thus
money alone gains power over your affections.
Tell me why you only write two-liners or
four-liners? You say such poems have more wit, but no less art.
Do not get in the habit of swearing, it’s a bad
one. The man who swears much also forswears himself a little.
The apostolic sign, the Sacraments, the Lord’s
Prayer, the Ten Commandments: these contain the sum of our religion.
You observe Venus’ days, and you consecrate the nights to
venery.
If you are the New Troy of the Britons, I pray that the second Troy be more
fortunate than the first.
You make haste slowly, you do everything with
premeditation. Therefore all your folly is premeditated.
You complain because the entire neighborhood is
unfriendly to you. You say none of the praise due to you is given. You
take what they do not give. It is unclear whether you are to be laughed
at or wept over. Here black envy has no place. It is right that others
praise our achievements. Praise grows foul in any man’s own mouth.
A subtle wit and a bountiful patrimony, dying,
you ill-advisedly parcel out to your sons. You give the first your
farm, and your wit to the second. Why should riches profit a fool, or
wit a pauper? Thus you will squander your estate and your wit.
As the wily fox is amongst the beats, thus a man
full of deceit is amongst men.
You are almost a good man and barely a rascal.
Well then, as much of goodness you as lack, thus much you possess of
badness.
A tender girl from the city, wed to rustic, who
knew only of city matters and nothing of rural, when she saw the maids
milking the cows all drawn up in a line, and when she noted them
tugging on the hanging teats, the new bride exclaimed and broke out in
a guffaw, and was almost dissolved in her laughter. Her husband asked
the reason, and, grinning, she held her silence: out of shame the
modest bride was speechless.
It is obvious, Ursula, that you are named by
antitheses, as you have neither a bear for a mother, nor for a father.
He who is familiar with your nature and ways perceives nothing in them
but that which is fair and virginal.
Since Carinus did not care to go to heaven of a
sudden, he elected to go by the fixed steps of a ladder.
Since speaking much and keeping silence little
are woman’s faults, there is many an effeminate man in the world.
You have many kinsmen and acquaintances, but
very few friends. And you have more than you deserve.
Although you have no hen at home, lo, you have
chicks. Are you indebted to your neighbors, or do they belong to you?
Three horned animals dominate the Zodiac, the
truculent bull, the ram, and the goat, all equipped with horns.
Astrologers, by the laws of heaven and earth, does one virgin suffice
for three horned animals?
You, learned man, are a clergyman who teaches
and advises. With fitting art you castigate the wicked and exhort the
good. We are drawn apart by diverse enthusiasms, but we both have the
same goal. You do that in earnest which I do with humor.
Old man Publicus is deep in debt but free of
care, he spends all his time on dinners and delights. Why is he not
tormented by trouble, and why does he not perish out of anxiety when
somebody duns him? He says, “Why should I be bothered? It’s them who
ought to be unhappy to whom I owe money, nor do I choose to pay them.”
Lest your poems displease the reader, Battus, do
this: you, who made them, be the only one to read them.
Here, Procellus, is the epigram you have so
often requested. But it conceals your morals and your character. My
Muse cannot lie, and you cannot bear it speaking the truth. Does it not
move you by keeping its silence?
Filthy man, are you more filthy, or is your
filthy wife? Never was there a more filthy pair than you two filthy
people.
Porus, declaiming oratorically and eloquently,
says “This speech of mine is rough and crude.” While he chatters such
things, the fool refuses to believe himself. For he does not trust his
own words.
Terr, prat, pasc, pastur, tu,
ram, rum, rasuo have implied meanings. The first syllable sounds,
the second remains silent. The abbreviated locution avoids shameful
solecisms. For the first syllables avoid a mistake, the final ones are
cautiously on their guard.
I nominate you a bad man, Marianus. You say that
“I accuse of you of being a bad man” is more correct grammar, for the
accusative case has this sense. You are a bad man, Marianus. I call and
nominate you such correctly. However the grammatical case may vary, you
are still a bad man.
Little is pleasing, when more would perhaps
please less. For frequently there is least fault in little.
You say that sometimes I tax myself in my poems.
Why not? Sometimes, possibly, I am like you.
The one lacked a father, the Second was born
without a father. And yet one God was the father of them both.
You covered your double identity with double
virtue: in a war a king mighty in arms, in peace a pious prophet.
Among your torments, one was an evilly
chattering wife. In this world, I believe, there is many a Job.
Who is prior to the first? He to whom fate has
given it to be the second. You may be first, as long as perhaps I may
be second.
Once you were called Philip and Philanthropos.
The one name shows you to have been kind, the other great-minded.
“Love conquers all,” and “relentless effort
conquers all.” Therefore do “love” and “labor” signify the
same thing?
Whoever wishes to be a second Apelles in his own
art should draw a line every day.
We are born that at length we may die. For the
man even now dying, life is reborn. So what’s troubling about dying?
While he was in good health Marcus heeded no
man’s advice. In his illness, advice displease him. He has died.
At no funeral have I witnessed such lamentation,
such murmurs. No funeral was ever sadder than this. For a magnate of
his nation has perished, a son of piety, a Maecenas to the learned, a
bulwark for the pious, a second father and husband for orphans and
widows, a brother to the noble, a helping hand to the needy, a man who
was a citizen for our cities and a husbandman for our countryside. So
who did not weep in this funeral? The bad man.
You who were consecrated to Mars and the Muses, Sidney — he
stole your life, they restored it to you.
I am obliged to you for your double duty, as
friend and tutor, and so I am your double debtor. Whatever is owed to
friendship, I repay with affection. For whatever is owed to your
precepts, only gratitude is available to me.
Lately a city-man rusticizing in our fields, has
he saw the goats go a-roaming over our mountains, and the bearded
bellwethers going before our flocks, as is their wont, he noted their
bristly, hairy fleeces, and thus with a jest teased his host, standing
nearby: “Pray look at those countrymen of yours in the distance, I
imagine they’re wearing garments of Welsh wool.” His host replied,
“Their horns show they are city-men.”
Two beggars, of whom one was stricken in the
eyes, the other in the feet, decided to go a-roving on the following
terms, that the blind man carry the cripple, and that he would guide
the blind one, and that they would have an equal share in their
takings. While they were traveling the one saw a mussel and asked that
his friend would agree to move towards the fish. When this was done, a
quarrel arose over the mussel, they wouldn’t agree to whom it belonged
without an umpire. A certain man came along, and they swore to abide by
his judgment. He immediately reserved the meat for himself and divided
the shell between them, calling them a pair of fools.
Lest my volumes irritate Cato-like censors with
their excessive wantonness, I prescribe modesty for my verses and deny
licence to my pen. The nine sisterly Muses are maidens, the filth of
sluts does not suit them. Let there be chastity in their mouths and a
virginal demeanor. Let no little “chin” or tiny little “testifiers”, no
great “cony” be read here. Does this please you censors?
Foolishly he changed Saturn’s Golden Age into
iron; more feckless than Glaucus, he swapped gems for an empty
reed pipe; crueller than the master of pallid Orcus, he inflicted
torments on poor mortals more pernicious than the black Furies, whoever
being daring of mind, first attempted to open the passages of the
world’s center, whose entrance was forbidden to mankind. Nor content to
reap with his hand the sweet fruit which the generous earth purveys, he
descended into its deepest hidden places and cut apart the limbs of his
great Mother, crueller than savage Nero himself who with a bloody sword
cut up his unoffending mother.
Until
then, no need for gold prevailed among mortals, nor did the arrogant
rich man vaunt himself in precious raiment, content to have his limbs
covered with a thrifty garment. And an earthenware vessel gleamed in
the palace of a generous king, which the potter had made with easy art.
With fear banished, the mountain-ranging guardian of the flocks
snatched sweet sleep beneath the green leaf, and the reaper, his limbs
wearied with constant labor, quenched his thirst with the water of a
sweet stream. Nor did the consul desire to recline on the light
feathers of birds, being accustomed beforehand to a hard cot. Nor,
Bacchus, did the people understand your arts, nor how to reap the vines
with its sharp sickles, being uninstructed into how to grow warm with
the strong fine wine. Not yet did the craftsmen know how to use their
docile hands to raise up sublime walls of shining marble, but homes
were built of flowery turf, ornamented by no more costly furniture.
Hung tapestries did not cover walls, nor coverlets beds, garments were
not dyed with purple nor costly scarlet, nor did wool bear false colors.
Such was
still the world’s aspect, but worse followed. For after vain posterity
scorned its ancestral rites, being over-addicted to innovations, and
made its attempt on the bowels of the fruit-bearing earth, seeking
delights, pursuing show and display, everything took a turn for the
worse and no traces (strange to say!) of the prior age remained. Faith,
love, concord, and virtue passed away, and in their place war, discord,
and murder crept in, and threw men’s affairs into confusion with a
blind whirlwind. Religion lay prostrate, scorned, and Lycaon mocked the gods above, and, having stricken a
pact, the giants conspired to throw the father of gods and men out of
Olympus. But rights remained intact for a god. For men penetrated into
your realm, ruler of the shades, your godhead disdained. Neptune’s
portion was more safe, less exposed to spoilage. Yet his waters were
made into spoils for seafaring sailors. Just Jupiter would scarce live
safe in the heavens, except that with assiduous labor Mulciber has made
him weapons, and as the High Thunderer he lays low his rebellious
enemies with his gleaming lightning, and sends them in their sorrow to
Tartarus.
You, oh
worshippers of the gods, who are held by a due care for law and right,
who possess a religious heart, unstained by the contagion of this
deceptive world, nor are being led astray from the right path by the
appearance of things, scorn the impious cant of the vainly-talking
people, learn the justice of your fathers and the ways of your
ancestors, place a limit on your delights, let your pleasure be chaste,
your mind pious, your hand pure, your tongue harmless to your friends.
Let you keep far away, rage, wrath, guile, discord, wantonness,
accursed thirst for gold, and worldly vainglory. Thus the Iron Age will
flee, their brazen progeny will yield, and gradually everything will
put on a new face, until a Golden Age shines again for those born in
after time.
There is place, down a steep cliff sloping away
from the castle founded under Donat’s auspices, in a deep dale, tending
in the direction of the rainy South wind, which once the Dryad girls
eagerly inhabited, the woodland nymphs, and those rural deities, the
Fauni. At first it was distinguished by cast-up rocks and mountain ash,
and thick shadows grew thanks to the untended thornbrakes. This was a
place long familiar to the wanton goats, fleet rabbits, and
forest-dwelling boars. Now, by a changed circumstance, as if the
smith-god Mulciber had fallen to earth from high heaven and started the
work with his guidance (a wonder to tell), there is a spacious yard,
which, fertile with grasses, handsomely smiles with its face between
groves on either side, and water, running across in a curving path,
forms a boundary for the forest, and at length hides itself in the vast
sea. Behind this, an inner wall surrounds the garden, warding off from
the flowers the exulting deer and the lowly kids. With its welcome
covering the dripping grape-vine dresses the wall, a consecration to
the winey God of the grape. Like a beautiful badge on a chaste matron’s
snowy arm, as golden rings shine on very soft fingers, or as a gem
gleams amidst base stones, thus the near-ripe clusters gleam on the
vines. Why should I recount each detail? Splendid wooden columns stand
ranged around, shining too with art, and in the midst of the yard a
breeze breathes with its sweet gusts. Here is a perpetual spring, in a
rich vein the ground bestows all manner of flowers, here is grass round
about. The soil bestows upon the nymphs pallid violets and white
lilies, and for mortals it produces welcome herbs, which the table of a
royal tyrant would not scorn, nor would Apollo, the discover of
medicine, shun them as harmful, or Cytherean Venus disdain their sweet fragrance.
To sell the treasures of one’s wit is a sordid
thing, but it would be foolish to scatter them everywhere for free. Do
you wish to make a swap with me, candid reader? I give you the poems,
you give me your good words.
You hope my poems please, I hope they please a
few, we are not of the same mind. What if they please nobody? Lo, we
both lose, I lose the praise and you the profit, and so we are the same.