No treasure, hadst thou more amassed Than fame to Tantalus assigned, Would save thee from a tomb at last, But thou must leave it all behind.
I give thee, therefore, counsel wise; Confide not vainly in thy store, However large-much less despise Others comparatively poor;
But in thy more exalted state A just and equal temper show, That all who see thee rich and great May deem thee worthy to be so.
FROM A HYMN OF CALLIMACHUS
NOR oils of balmy scent produce Nor mirror for Minerva's use,
Ye nymphs who lave her: she, arrayed In genuine beauty, scorns their aid. Not even when they left the skies To seek on Ida's head the prize
From Paris' hand, did Juno deign, Or Pallas, in the crystal plain Of Simois' stream her locks to trace, Or in the mirror's polished face, Though Venus oft with anxious care Adjusted twice a single hair.
IT flatters and deceives thy view, This mirror of ill-polished ore; For were it just, and told thee true,
Thou wouldst consult it never more.
You give your cheeks a rosy stain, With washes dye your hair; But paint and washes both are vain To give a youthful air.
Those wrinkles mock your daily toil, No labour will efface 'em,
You wear a mask of smoothest oil, Yet still with ease we trace 'em.
An art so fruitless then forsake, Which though you much excel in, You never can contrive to make Old Hecuba young Helen.
BEWARE, my friend! of crystal brook, Or fountain, lest that hideous hook, Thy nose, thou chance to see ; Narcissus' fate would then be thine, And self-detested thou wouldst pine, As self-enamoured he.
HAIR, wax, rouge, honey, teeth you buy,
A multifarious store!
A mask at once would all supply, Nor would it cost you more.
WHEN Aulus, the nocturnal thief, made prize Of Hermes, swift-winged envoy of the skies, Hermes, Arcadia's king, the thief divine, Who when an infant stole Apollo's kine,
And whom, as arbiter and overseer
Of our gymnastic sports, we planted here; "Hermes," he cried, "you meet no new disaster; "Oft-times the pupil goes beyond his master."
My mother! if thou love me, name no more My noble birth! Sounding at every breath My noble birth, thou kill'st me. Thither fly,
As to their only refuge, all from whom Nature withholds all good besides; they boast Their noble birth, conduct us to the tombs Of their forefathers, and from age to age Ascending, trumpet their illustrious race: But whom hast thou beheld, or canst thou name, Derived from no forefathers? Such a man Lives not; for how could such be born at all? And if it chance that, native of a land Far distant, or in infancy deprived Of all his kindred, one, who cannot trace His origin, exist, why deem him sprung From baser ancestry than theirs who can? My mother! he whom nature at his birth Endowed with virtuous qualities, although An Æthiop and a slave, is nobly born.
PITY, says the Theban bard, From my wishes I discard;
Envy, let me rather be,
Rather far, a theme for thee! Pity to distress is shown, Envy to the great alone. So the Theban: but to shine Less conspicuous be mine! I prefer the golden mean, Pomp and penury between ;
For alarm and peril wait Ever on the loftiest state, And the lowest, to the end, Obloquy and scorn attend.
I SLEPT When Venus entered: to my bed A Cupid in her beauteous hand she led, A bashful seeming boy, and thus she said:
"Shepherd, receive my little one! I bring "An untaught love, whom thou must teach to sing." She said, and left him. I, suspecting nought, Many a sweet strain my subtle pupil taught, How reed to reed Pan first with osier bound, How Pallas formed the pipe of softest sound, How Hermes gave the lute, and how the quire Of Phoebus owe to Phoebus' self the lyre.
Such were my themes; my themes nought heeded he, But ditties sang of amorous sort to me,
The pangs that mortals and immortals prove From Venus' influence, and the darts of love. Thus was the teacher by the pupil taught; His lessons I retained, and mine forgot.
OFT we enhance our ills by discontent, And give them bulk beyond what Nature meant. A parent, brother, friend deceased, to cry, "He's dead indeed, but he was born to die' Such temperate grief is suited to the size And burthen of the loss; is just and wise. But to exclaim, "Ah! wherefore was I born, "Thus to be left for ever thus forlorn ?" Who thus laments his loss invites distress, And magnifies a woe that might be less, Through dull despondence to his lot resigned And leaving reason's remedy behind.
TRANSLATION OF AN EPIGRAM OF HOMER
PAY me my price, potters! and I will sing. Attend, O Pallas! and with lifted arm Protect their oven; let the cups and all The sacred vessels blacken well, and, baked With good success, yield them both fair renown And profit, whether in the market sold Or streets, and let no strife ensue between us. But oh, ye potters! if with shameless front Ye falsify your promise, then I leave No mischief uninvoked to avenge the wrong. Come Syntrips, Smaragus, Sabactes, come, And Asbetus; nor let your direst dread, Omodamus, delay! Fire seize your house! May neither house nor vestibule escape! May ye lament to see confusion mar And mingle the whole labour of your hands, And may a sound fill all your oven, such As of a horse grinding his provender,
While all your pots and flagons bounce within. Come hither also, daughter of the sun, Circe the sorceress, and with thy drugs
Poison themselves, and all that they have made! Come also, Chiron, with thy numerous troop Of Centaurs, as well those who died beneath The club of Hercules, as who escaped, And stamp their crockery to dust; down fall Their chimney; let them see it with their eyes, And howl to see the ruin of their art, While I rejoice; and if a potter stoop To peep into his furnace, may the fire Flash in his face and scorch it, that all men Observe, thenceforth, equity and good faith.
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