II. ODE XIX
Being half foxt he praiseth Bacchus.
In a blind corner jolly Bacchus taught The Nymphs and Satyrs poetry; Myself (a thing scarce to be thought) Was at that time a stander by. And ever since the whim runs in my head, With heavenly frenzy I'm on fire; Dear Bacchus, let me not be punishèd For raving, when thou didst inspire. Ecstatically drunk, I now dare sing Thy bigot Thyades, and the source 10 Whence thy brisk wine, honey, and milk did spring, Enchannell'd by thy sceptre's force. Bold as I am, I dare yet higher fly, And sing bright Ariadne's Crown, Rejoice to see bold Pentheus' destiny, And grave Lycurgus tumbled down. Rivers and seas thine empire all obey, When thou thy standard dost advance, Wild mountaineers, thy vassals, trim and gay, In tune and time stagger and dance. 20 Thou, when great Jove began to fear his throne (In no small danger then he was), The mighty Rhoecus thou didst piss upon, And of that lion mad'st an ass. 'Tis true, thy talent is not war, but mirth; The fiddle, not the trumpet, thine; Yet didst thou bravely lay about thee then, Great Moderator, God of Wine. And when to Hell in triumph thou didst ride O'er Cerberus thou didst prevail, 30 The silly cur, thee for his Master own'd, And like a puppy wagg'd his tail.
[Odes of Horace.] On Flatman's Horatian versions generally see Introduction. The notes they call for are few.]
[Line: 14 Crown] Not in the usual vague poetic sense, but the star Corona Ariadnes.]
III. ODE VIII. To Maecenas.
Learnèd Maecenas, wonder not that I (A Bachelor) invoke that Deity, Which at this feast the married rout adore, And yearly do implore. They pray the gods to make their burthen light, And that their yoke-fellows may never fight: I praise them, not for giving me a wife, But saving of my life. By heav'n redeem'd, I 'scap'd a falling tree, And yearly own that strange delivery, 10 Yearly rejoice, and drink the briskest wine, Not spill it at their shrine. Come, my Maecenas, let us drink, and thus Cherish that life those Pow'rs have given us: A thousand cups to midwife this new birth, With inoffensive mirth. No State-affairs near my Maecenas come, Since all are fall'n that fought victorious Rome. By civil broils the Medes, our foes, will fall. The weakest to the wall. 20 Our fierce and ancient enemy of Spain Is now subdu'd, and tamely bears our chain. The savage Scythian too begins to yield, About to quit the field. Bear they the load of government that can; Thou, since a private, and good-natur'd man, Enjoy th' advantage of the present hour, For why shouldst thou look sour?
III. ODE IX. Horace and Lydia.
Hor. While I was lovely in thine eye, And while no soft embrace but mine Encircled thy fair ivory neck, I did the Persian King outshine.
Lyd. While Horace was an honest lad, And Chloe less than Lydia lov'd, Lydia was then a matchless Lass, And in a sphere 'bove Ilia mov'd.
Hor. But Chloe now has vanquish'd me, That lute and voice who could deny? 10 Methinks might I but save her life, I could myself even dare to die.
Lyd. Young Calais is my gallant, He burns me with his flaming eye; To save the pretty villain's life, Twice over I could dare to die. Hor. But say I Lydia lov'd again, And would new-braze Love's broken chain? Say I should turn my Chloe off, And take poor Lydia home again? 20
Lyd. Why then though he a fixèd star. Thou lighter than a cork shouldst be, Mad, and unquiet as the sea, Yet would I live, and die with thee.
III. ODE XII
No more Love's subjects, but his slaves they be, That dare not o'er a glass of wine be free, But quit, for fear of friends, their liberty.
Fond Neobule! thou art lazy grown, Away thy needle, web, and distaff thrown, Thou hop'st thy work by Hebrus will be done.
A sturdy youth, and a rank rider he, Can run a race, and box most manfully, Swim like a duck, and caper like a flea.
He hunts the stag, and all the forest o'er 10 With strength and craft pursues the savage boar: He minds the sport, and thou desir'st no more.
III. ODE XVII. To Aelius Lamia.
Brave Aelius, sprung from an heroic line, Whose pedigree in long descents do shine, That add'st new glories to the Lamian name, And rear'st fresh trophies to their fame! Descended from Prince Lamus, whose command Reach from the Formian walls, o'er sea and land; Well was he known our ancestors among, Where gentle Liris slides along. Great as thou art, time will not thee obey: To-morrow's like to be a blust'ring day, 10 Some tempest too is threat'ned from the east, As by th' unlucky crow I guess'd: 'Tis dry to-day! Now lay thy fuel in, Ere the unwelcome season do begin, Good victuals get, and frolic friends together, Armour of proof against ill weather.
[xvii. 2 'Do shine' is probably a misprint, due to the contiguous s's, for 'does' or 'do's shine'. So below in l. 6, 'reach' should probably be 'reach_t_' An apparent but not real false concord between plural nouns and singular verb was common in the seventeenth century.]
III. ODE XIX. To Telephus.
I.
Thou por'st on Helvicus, and studiest in vain, How many years pass'd betwixt King and King's reign, To make an old woman ev'n twitter for joy At an eighty-eight story, or the scuffle at Troy: But where the good wine, and best fire is When the cruel North-wind does blow, And the trees do penance in snow; Where the poet's delight and desire is, Thou, pitiful book-worm, ne'er troublest thy brain.
II.
Come, drawer, some claret, we'll drown this new Moon. 10 More candles t' improve this dull night into noon: let the healths, let the house, and the glasses turn round, But no tears, except those of the tankard, abound. Come! here's a good health to the Muses, Three brimmers to the three times three, And one to each grace let there be; The triple-skull'd dog bite him that refuses.
III.
Let's be mad as March-hares, call the minstrels and singers, Strike up there!--kick that rogue--he has chilblains on's fingers, 20 Let that whoreson our neighbour, on his bags that lies thinking, Bear a part in the storm, but not the calm of our drinking. Come! bring us a wench, or two, prithee; Thou Telephus look'st pretty fair, And hast a good thick head of hair, Fetch him Chloe, she's buxom, and loves to trade with thee; Call Glycera to me, for I am one of her swingers.
[xix. A good example of the curious 'skimble skamble' anapaests before Dryden and Prior.]
[Line: 4 an eighty-eight story] Of the Armada.]
III. ODE XX. To Pyrrhus.
Dry Pyrrhus, little dost thou know, What 'tis to make a whelp forgo His lioness,--faith 'twill not do! It will be so.
Nearchus understands his game, If he resolves to quit his fame, What's that to you? To save his name You'll purchase shame.
If before peace you war prefer, Shoot at his butt--you'll find from her 10 A Rowland for your Oliver, That I dare swear.
He is a gay, and sanguine man, His periwig the wind does fan, And she will hug him, now and than, Do what you can.
III. ODE XXI. To his Wine-Vessels.
Kind Brother Butt! as old, and brisk, as I (For we had both the same nativity), Whether to mirth, to brawls, or desperate love, Or sleep, thy gentle power does move; By what, or name, or title dignifi'd; Thou need'st not fear the nicest test to 'bide: Corvinus' health since we may not refuse, Give down amain thy generous juice. Corvinus, tho' a Stoic, will not balk Thy charms, for he can drink, as well as talk. 10 Old Cato, tho' he often were morose, Yet he would sometimes take a dose. O Wine! thou mak'st the thick-skull'd fellow soft; Easest the Statesman, vex'd with cares full oft; Unriddlest all intrigues with a free bowl, Thou arrant pick-lock of the Soul! Thou dost our gasping, dying hopes revive; To peasants, souls as big as princes' give; Inspired by thee they scorn their slavish fears, And bid their rulers shake their ears. 20 All this, and more (great Bacchus) thou canst do, But if kind Venus be assistant too, Then bring more candles to expel the night, Till Phoebus puts the stars to flight.
III. ODE XXII. Upon Diana.
Gentle Diana, Goddess bright, Who midwiv'st infants into light, The mountain's Deity tripartite, And Queen of Night, To thee I consecrate my Pine, Henceforth it shall be ever thine, Yearly I'll offer at this shrine The blood of swine.
III. ODE III. To Venus.
'Tis true, I was a sturdy soldier once, And bravely under Cupid's banners fought: Disbanded now, his service I renounce, My warlike weapons serve for nought.
Here! take my helmet, sword, and shield, My bow, my quiver, my artillery; Chloe has beaten me quite out of th' field, And leads me in captivity.
Great Venus! thou that know'st what I have been, How able, and how true a friend to smocks! 10 Revenge my quarrel on th' imperious quean, And pay her with a pox!
IV. ODE I. To Venus.
No more of War:--Dread Cytherea, cease; Thy feeble soldier sues for peace. Alas! I am not now that man of might, As when fair Cynara bade me fight. Leave, Venus, leave! consider my gray hairs Snow'd on by fifty tedious years. My forts are slighted, and my bulwarks down: Go, and beleaguer some strong town. Make thy attempts on Maximus; there's game To entertain thy sword and flame. 10 There Peace and Plenty dwell: He's of the Court, Ignorant what 'tis to storm a fort: There sound a charge; he's generous and young, He's unconcern'd, lusty, and strong: He of thy silken banners will be proud, And of thy conquests talk aloud. His bags are full: the lad thou mayst prefer To be thy treasurer in war. He may erect gold statues to thy name, And be the trumpet of thy fame: 20 Thy Deity the zealous youth will then invoke, And make thy beauteous altars smoke. With voice and instruments thy praise shall sound, Division he, and Love the ground; There, twice a day the gamesome company Of lads and lasses in debvoir to thee, Like Mars's priests their numbers shall advance, And sweetly sing, and nimbly dance. But as for me! I'm quite dispirited, I court nor maid, nor boy to bed! 30 I cannot drink, nor bind a garland on, Alas! my dancing days are done! But hold--Why do these tears steal from my eyes? My lovely Ligurinus, why? Why does my falt'ring tongue disguise my voice With rude and inarticulate noise? O Ligurin! 'tis thou that break'st my rest, Methinks I grasp thee in my breast: Then I pursue thee in my passionate dreams O'er pleasant fields and purling streams. 40
[IV. i. 7 'slighted' = 'razed,' the original sense of 'to make level'.]
[Line: 24 I confess this line beat me at first. But no doubt it has a musical sense, for in music both 'division' (notes run together) and 'ground' (a recurrent motive) have technical meanings. The punctuation above, Mr. Simpson's, makes this clearer.]
[Line: 26 'De_b_voir' is worth keeping.]
IV. ODE X. To Ligurinus, a beauteous Youth.
'Tis true, thou yet art fair, my Ligurine, No down as yet environs cheek or chin: But when those hairs which now do flow, shall fall, And when thy rosy cheeks turn wan and pale: When in thy glass another Ligurine thou Shalt spy, and scarce thy bearded self shall know; Then thou (despis'd) shalt sing this piteous song; Why am I old? or why was ever young?