No More Learning

Now, in closed field, each other from afar
They view; and, rushing on, begin the war.
They launch their spears; then hand to hand they meet,
The trembling soil resounds beneath their feet:
Their bucklers clash; thick blows descend from high,
And flakes of fire from their hard helmets fly.
Courage conspires with chance; and both engage
With equal fortune yet, and mutual rage.
As, when two bulls for their fair female fight
In Sila's shades, or on Taburnus' height,
With horns adverse they meet; the keeper flies;
Mute stands the herd; the heifers roll their eyes,
And wait the event--which victor they shall bear,
And who shall be the lord, to rule the lusty year:
With rage of love the jealous rivals burn,
And push for push, and wound for wound, return;
Their dewlaps gored, their sides are laved in blood;
Loud cries and roaring sounds rebellow through the wood:
Such was the combat in the listed ground;
So clash their swords, and so their shields resound.
Jove sets the beam: in either scale he lays
The champions' fate, and each exactly weighs.
On this side, life, and lucky chance ascends;
Loaded with death, that other scale descends.
Raised on the stretch, young Turnus aims a blow
Full on the helm of his unguarded foe:
Shrill shouts and clamours ring on either side,
As hopes and fears their panting hearts divide.
But all in pieces flies the traitor sword,
And, in the middle stroke, deserts his lord.
Now 'tis but death or flight: disarmed he flies,
When in his hand an unknown hilt he spies.
Fame says that Turnus, when his steeds he joined, }
Hurrying to war, disordered in his mind, }
Snatched the first weapon which his haste could find. }
'Twas not the fated sword his father bore,
But that his charioteer Metiscus wore.
This, while the Trojans fled, the toughness held:
But, vain against the great Vulcanian shield,
The mortal-tempered steel deceived his hand:
The shivered fragments shone amid the sand.
Surprised with fear, he fled along the field,
And now forthright, and now in orbits wheeled:
For here the Trojan troops the list surround,
And there the pass is closed with pools and marshy ground.
Æneas hastens, though with heavier pace--
His wound, so newly knit, retards the chase,
And oft his trembling knees their aid refuse--
Yet, pressing foot by foot, his foe pursues.
Thus, when a fearful stag is closed around
With crimson toils, or in a river found,
High on the bank the deep-mouthed hound appears,
Still opening, following still, where'er he steers;
The persecuted creature, to and fro,
Turns here and there, to 'scape his Umbrian foe:
Steep is the ascent, and, if he gains the land,
The purple death is pitched along the strand:
His eager foe, determined to the chase,
Stretched at his length, gains ground at every pace:
Now to his beamy head he makes his way,
And now he holds, or thinks he holds, his prey:
Just at the pinch, the stag springs out with fear;
He bites the wind, and fills his sounding jaws with air:
The rocks, the lakes, the meadows, ring with cries;
The mortal tumult mounts, and thunders in the skies.
Thus flies the Daunian prince, and, flying, blames
His tardy troops, and calling by their names,
Demands his trusty sword. The Trojan threats
The realm with ruin, and their ancient seats
To lay in ashes, if they dare supply,
With arms or aid, his vanquished enemy;
Thus menacing, he still pursues the course,
With vigour, though diminished of his force.
Ten times already, round the listed place,
One chief had fled, and t'other given the chase:
No trivial prize is played; for on the life
Or death of Turnus, now depends the strife.
Within the space, an olive-tree had stood, }
A sacred shade, a venerable wood, }
For vows to Faunus paid, the Latins' guardian god. }
Here hung the vests, and tablets were engraved,
Of sinking mariners from shipwreck saved.
With heedless hands the Trojans felled the tree,
To make the ground inclosed for combat free.
Deep in the root, whether by fate, or chance,
Or erring haste, the Trojan drove his lance;
Then stooped, and tugged with force immense, to free
The encumbered spear from the tenacious tree;
That, whom his fainting limbs pursued in vain,
His flying weapon might from far attain.
Confused with fear, bereft of human aid,
Then Turnus to the gods, and first to Faunus, prayed:--
"O Faunus! pity! and thou, mother Earth,
Where I thy foster-son received my birth,
Hold fast the steel! If my religious hand
Your plant has honoured, which your foes profaned,
Propitious hear my pious prayer! " He said,
Nor with successless vows invoked their aid.
The incumbent hero wrenched, and pulled, and strained;
But still the stubborn earth the steel detained.
Juturna took her time; and, while in vain
He strove, assumed Metiscus' form again,
And, in that imitated shape, restored
To the despairing prince his Daunian sword.
The queen of love--who, with disdain and grief,
Saw the bold nymph afford this prompt relief--
To assert her offspring with a greater deed,
From the tough root the lingering weapon freed.
Once more erect, the rival chiefs advance: }
One trusts the sword, and one the pointed lance; }
And both resolved alike, to try their fatal chance. }
Meantime imperial Jove to Juno spoke,
Who from a shining cloud beheld the shock:--
"What new arrest, O queen of heaven! is sent
To stop the Fates now labouring in the event?
What further hopes are left thee to pursue? }
Divine Æneas, (and thou know'st it too,) }
Fore-doomed, to these celestial seats is due. }
What more attempts for Turnus can be made,
That thus thou lingerest in this lonely shade?
Is it becoming of the due respect
And awful honour of a god elect,
A wound unworthy of our state to feel,
Patient of human hands, and earthly steel?
Or seems it just, the sister should restore }
A second sword, when one was lost before, }
And arm a conquered wretch against his conqueror? }
For what, without thy knowledge and avow,
Nay more, thy dictate, durst Juturna do?
At last, in deference to my love, forbear
To lodge within thy soul this anxious care:
Reclined upon my breast, thy grief unload:--
Who should relieve the goddess, but the god?
Now all things to their utmost issue tend,
Pushed by the Fates to their appointed end.
While leave was given thee, and a lawful hour
For vengeance, wrath, and unresisted power,
Tossed on the seas thou could'st thy foes distress,
And, driven ashore, with hostile arms oppress;
Deform the royal house; and, from the side
Of the just bridegroom, tear the plighted bride:--
Now cease at my command. " The Thunderer said;
And, with dejected eyes, this answer Juno made:--
"Because your dread decree too well I knew,
From Turnus and from earth unwilling I withdrew.
Else should you not behold me here, alone,
Involved in empty clouds, my friends bemoan,
But, girt with vengeful flames, in open sight,
Engaged against my foes in mortal fight.
'Tis true, Juturna mingled in the strife
By my command, to save her brother's life,
At least to try; but (by the Stygian lake--
The most religious oath the gods can take)
With this restriction, not to bend the bow,
Or toss the spear, or trembling dart to throw.
And now, resigned to your superior might,
And tired with fruitless toils, I loath the fight.
This let me beg (and this no fates withstand)
Both for myself and for your father's land,
That, when the nuptial bed shall bind the peace,
(Which I, since you ordain, consent to bless,)
The laws of either nation be the same;
But let the Latins still retain their name,
Speak the same language which they spoke before,
Wear the same habits which their grandsires wore.
Call them not Trojans: perish the renown
And name of Troy, with that detested town.
Latium be Latium still; let Alba reign,
And Rome's immortal majesty remain. "
Then thus the founder of mankind replies:--
(Unruffled was his front, serene his eyes,)
"Can Saturn's issue, and heaven's other heir,
Such endless anger in her bosom bear?
Be mistress, and your full desires obtain;
But quench the choler you foment in vain.
From ancient blood, the Ausonian people, sprung,
Shall keep their name, their habit, and their tongue:
The Trojans to their customs shall be tied. }
I will, myself, their common rites provide. }
The natives shall command, the foreigners subside. }
All shall be Latium; Troy without a name;
And her lost sons forget from whence they came.
From blood so mixed, a pious race shall flow,
Equal to gods, excelling all below.
No nation more respect to you shall pay,
Or greater offerings on your altars lay. "
Juno consents, well pleased that her desires
Had found success, and from the cloud retires.
The peace thus made, the Thunderer next prepares
To force the watery goddess from the wars.
Deep in the dismal regions void of light,
Three daughters, at a birth, were born to Night:[14]
These their brown mother, brooding on her care, }
Endued with windy wings to flit in air, }
With serpents girt alike, and crowned with hissing hair. }
In heaven the Diræ called, and still at hand,
Before the throne of angry Jove they stand,
His ministers of wrath, and ready still
The minds of mortal men with fears to fill,
Whene'er the moody sire, to wreak his hate
On realms or towns deserving of their fate,
Hurls down diseases, death, and deadly care,
And terrifies the guilty world with war.
One sister plague of these from heaven he sent,
To fright Juturna with a dire portent.
The pest comes whirling down: by far more slow
Springs the swift arrow from the Parthian bow,
Or Cydon yew, when, traversing the skies,
And drenched in poisonous juice, the sure destruction flies.
With such a sudden, and unseen a flight,
Shot through the clouds the daughter of the Night.
Soon as the field inclosed she had in view,
And from afar her destined quarry knew--
Contracted, to the boding bird she turns,
Which haunts the ruined piles and hallowed urns,
And beats about the tombs with nightly wings,
Where songs obscene on sepulchres she sings.
Thus lessened in her form, with frightful cries }
The Fury round unhappy Turnus flies, }
Flaps on his shield, and flutters o'er his eyes. }
A lazy chilness crept along his blood;
Choked was his voice; his hair with horror stood.
Juturna from afar beheld her fly,
And knew the ill omen, by her screaming cry,
And stridor of her wing. Amazed with fear,
Her beauteous breast she beat, and rent her flowing hair.
"Ah me! " she cries--"in this unequal strife,
What can thy sister more to save thy life?
Weak as I am, can I, alas! contend
In arms with that inexorable fiend?
Now, now, I quit the field! forbear to fright
My tender soul, ye baleful birds of night!
The lashing of your wings I know too well,
The sounding flight, and funeral screams of hell!
These are the gifts you bring from haughty Jove,
The worthy recompense of ravished love!
Did he for this exempt my life from fate?
O hard conditions of immortal state!
Though born to death, not privileged to die,
But forced to bear imposed eternity!
Take back your envious bribes, and let me go
Companion to my brother's ghost below!
The joys are vanished: nothing now remains
Of life immortal, but immortal pains.
What earth will open her devouring womb,
To rest a weary goddess in the tomb? "
She drew a length of sighs; nor more she said,
But in her azure mantle wrapped her head,
Then plunged into her stream, with deep despair,
And her last sobs came bubbling up in air.
Now stern Æneas waves his weighty spear
Against his foe, and thus upbraids his fear:--
"What farther subterfuge can Turnus find?
What empty hopes are harboured in his mind?
'Tis not thy swiftness can secure thy flight;
Not with their feet, but hands, the valiant fight.
Vary thy shape in thousand forms, and dare
What skill and courage can attempt in war;
Wish for the wings of winds, to mount the sky; }
Or hid within the hollow earth to lie! " }
The champion shook his head, and made this short reply:-- }
"No threats of thine my manly mind can move;
Tis hostile heaven I dread, and partial Jove. "
He said no more, but, with a sigh, repressed
The mighty sorrow in his swelling breast.
Then, as he rolled his troubled eyes around, }
An antique stone he saw, the common bound }
Of neighbouring fields, and barrier of the ground-- }
So vast, that twelve strong men of modern days
The enormous weight from earth could hardly raise.
He heaved it at a lift, and, poised on high,
Ran staggering on against his enemy,
But so disordered, that he scarcely knew
His way, or what unwieldy weight he threw.
His knocking knees are bent beneath the load,
And shivering cold congeals his vital blood.
The stone drops from his arms, and, falling short
For want of vigour, mocks his vain effort.
And as, when heavy sleep has closed the sight,
The sickly fancy labours in the night;
We seem to run; and, destitute of force,
Our sinking limbs forsake us in the course:
In vain we heave for breath; in vain we cry; }
The nerves, unbraced, their usual strength deny; }
And on the tongue the faltering accents die; }
So Turnus fared; whatever means he tried, }
All force of arms, and points of art employed, }
The Fury flew athwart, and made the endeavour void. }
A thousand various thoughts his soul confound; }
He stared about, nor aid nor issue found; }
His own men stop the pass, and his own walls surround. }
Once more he pauses, and looks out again,
And seeks the goddess charioteer in vain.
Trembling he views the thundering chief advance,
And brandishing aloft the deadly lance:
Amazed he cowers beneath his conquering foe,
Forgets to ward, and waits the coming blow.
Astonished while he stands, and fixed with fear,
Aimed at his shield he sees the impending spear.
The hero measured first, with narrow view, }
The destined mark; and, rising as he threw, }
With its full swing the fatal weapon flew. }
Not with less rage the rattling thunder falls,
Or stones from battering-engines break the walls:
Swift as a whirlwind, from an arm so strong,
The lance drove on, and bore the death along.
Nought could his sevenfold shield the prince avail,
Nor aught, beneath his arms, the coat of mail:
It pierced through all, and with a grisly wound
Transfixed his thigh, and doubled him to ground.
With groans the Latins rend the vaulted sky:
Woods, hills, and valleys, to the voice reply.
Now low on earth the lofty chief is laid, }
With eyes cast upwards, and with arms displayed, }
And, recreant, thus to the proud victor prayed:-- }
"I know my death deserved, nor hope to live:
Use what the gods and thy good fortune give.
Yet think, oh! think, if mercy may be shown,
(Thou hadst a father once, and hast a son,)
Pity my sire, now sinking to the grave;
And, for Anchises' sake, old Daunus save!
Or, if thy vowed revenge pursue my death,
Give to my friends my body void of breath!
The Latian chiefs have seen me beg my life: }
Thine is the conquest, thine the royal wife: }
Against a yielded man, 'tis mean ignoble strife. " }
In deep suspense the Trojan seemed to stand,
And, just prepared to strike, repressed his hand.
He rolled his eyes, and every moment felt
His manly soul with more compassion melt;
When, casting down a casual glance, he spied
The golden belt that glittered on his side,
The fatal spoil which haughty Turnus tore
From dying Pallas, and in triumph wore.
Then, roused anew to wrath, he loudly cries,
(Flames, while he spoke, came flashing from his eyes)
"Traitor! dost thou, dost thou to grace pretend,
Clad, as thou art, in trophies of my friend?
To his sad soul a grateful offering go!
'Tis Pallas, Pallas gives this deadly blow. "
He raised his arm aloft, and, at the word,
Deep in his bosom drove the shining sword.
The streaming blood distained his arms around,
And the disdainful soul came rushing through the wound.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 13: Note I. ]

[Footnote 14: Note IV. ]




NOTES

ON

ÆNEÏS, BOOK XII.


Note I.

_At this, a flood, of tears Lavinia shed; }
A crimson blush her beauteous face o'erspread, } P. 146.
Varying her cheeks by turns with white and red. _ }

Amata, ever partial to the cause of Turnus, had just before desired
him, with all manner of earnestness, not to engage his rival in single
fight; which was his present resolution. Virgil, though (in favour of
his hero) he never tells us directly that Lavinia preferred Turnus to
Æneas, yet has insinuated this preference twice before. For mark, in
the seventh Æneïd, she left her father, (who had promised her to Æneas
without asking her consent,) and followed her mother into the woods,
with a troop of Bacchanals, where Amata sung the marriage-song, in the
name of Turnus; which, if she had disliked, she might have opposed.
Then, in the eleventh Æneïd, when her mother went to the temple of
Pallas, to invoke her aid against Æneas, whom she calls by no better
name than _Phrygius prædo_, Lavinia sits by her in the same chair or
litter, _juxtaque comes Lavinia virgo,--oculos dejecta decoros_. What
greater sign of love, than fear and concernment for the lover? In
the lines which I have quoted, she not only sheds tears, but changes
colour. She had been bred up with Turnus; and Æneas was wholly a
stranger to her. Turnus, in probability, was her first love, and
favoured by her mother, who had the ascendant over her father. But I
am much deceived, if (besides what I have said) there be not a secret
satire against the sex, which is lurking under this description of
Virgil, who seldom speaks well of women--better indeed of Camilla, than
any other--for he commends her beauty and valour--because he would
concern the reader for her death. But valour is no very proper praise
for woman-kind; and beauty is common to the sex. He says also somewhat
of Andromache, but transiently: and his Venus is a better mother than a
wife; for she owns to Vulcan she had a son by another man. The rest are
Junos, Dianas, Didos, Amatas, two mad prophetesses, three Harpies on
earth, and as many Furies under ground. This fable of Lavinia includes
a secret moral; that women, in their choice of husbands, prefer the
younger of their suitors to the elder; are insensible of merit, fond
of handsomeness, and, generally speaking, rather hurried away by their
appetite, than governed by their reason.


Note II.

_Sea-born Messapus, with Atinas, heads
The Latin squadrons, and to battle leads. _--P. 166.

The poet had said, in the preceding lines, that Mnestheus, Serestus,
and Asylas, led on the Trojans, the Tuscans, and the Arcadians: but
none of the printed copies, which I have seen, mention any leader of
the Rutulians and Latins, but Messapus the son of Neptune. Ruæus takes
notice of this passage, and seems to wonder at it; but gives no reason,
why Messapus is alone without a coadjutor.

The four verses of Virgil run thus:

_Totæ adeo conversæ acies, omnesque Latini,
Omnes Dardanidæ; Mnestheus, ucerque Serestus,
Et Messapus equûm domitor, et fortis Asylas,
Tuscorumque phalanx, Evandrique Arcades alæ. _

I doubt not but the third line was originally thus:

_Et Messapus equûm domitor, et fortis Atinas:_

for the two names of Asylas and Atinas are so like, that one might
easily be mistaken for the other by the transcribers. And to fortify
this opinion, we find afterward, in the relation of Saces to Turnus,
that Atinas is joined with Messapus:

_Soli, pro portis, Messapus et acer Atinas
Sustentant aciem_----

In general I observe, not only in this Æneïd, but in all the six last
Books, that Æneas is never seen on horseback, and but once before,
as I remember, in the fourth, where he hunts with Dido. The reason of
this, if I guess aright, was a secret compliment which the poet made to
his countrymen the Romans, the strength of whose armies consisted most
in foot, which, I think, were all Romans and Italians. But their wings
or squadrons were made up of their allies, who were foreigners.


Note III.

_This let me beg (and this no fates withstand)
Both for myself and for your father's land, &c. _--P. 176.

The words in the original are these:

_Pro Latio obtestor, pro majestate tuorum_.

Virgil very artfully uses here the word _majestas_, which the Romans
loved so well, that they appropriated it to themselves--_Majestas
populi Romani_. This title, applied to kings, is very modern; and that
is all I will say of it at present, though the word requires a larger
note. In the word _tuorum_, is included the sense of my translation,
_Your father's land_, because Saturn, the father of Jove, had governed
that part of Italy, after his expulsion from Crete. But that on which I
most insist, is the address of the poet, in this speech of Juno. Virgil
was sufficiently sensible, as I have said in the preface, that whatever
the common opinion was, concerning the descent of the Romans from the
Trojans, yet the ancient customs, rites, laws, and habits of those
Trojans were wholly lost, and perhaps also that they had never been:
and, for this reason, he introduces Juno in this place, requesting of
Jupiter that no memory might remain of Troy (the town she hated), that
the people hereafter should not be called Trojans, nor retain any thing
which belonged to their predecessors. And why might not this also be
concerted betwixt our author and his friend Horace, to hinder Augustus
from re-building Troy, and removing thither the seat of empire, a
design so unpleasing to the Romans? But of this I am not positive,
because I have not consulted Dacier, and the rest of the critics,
to ascertain the time in which Horace writ the ode relating to that
subject.


Note IV.

_Deep in the dismal regions void of light,
Three daughters, at a birth, were born to Night. _--P. 177.

The father of these (not here mentioned) was Acheron: the names of
the three were Alecto, Megæra, and Tisiphone. They were called Furies
in hell, on earth Harpies, and in heaven Diræ. Two of these assisted
at the throne of Jupiter, and were employed by him to punish the
wickedness of mankind. These two must be Megæra and Tisiphone--not
Alecto; for Juno expressly commands her to return to hell, from whence
she came; and gives this reason:

_Te super ætherias errare licentius auras
Haud pater ipse velit, summi regnator Olympi,
Cede locis_.

Probably this Dira, unnamed by the poet in this place, might be
Tisiphone; for, though we find her in hell, in the Sixth Æneïd,
employed in the punishment of the damned,

_Continuo sontes ultrix, accincta flagello,
Tisiphone quatit insultans, &c. _

yet afterwards she is on earth in the tenth Æneïd, and amidst the
battle,

_Pallida Tisiphone media inter millia sævit_--

which I guess to be Tisiphone, the rather, by the etymology of her
name, which is compounded of τιω ulciscor, and φονος cœdes;
part of her errand being to affright Turnus with the stings
of a guilty conscience, and denounce vengeance against him for breaking
the first treaty, by refusing to yield Lavinia to Æneas, to whom she
was promised by her father--and, consequently, for being the author of
an unjust war; and also for violating the second treaty, by declining
the single combat, which he had stipulated with his rival, and called
the gods to witness before their altars. As for the names of the
Harpies, (so called on earth,) Hesiod tells us they were Iris, Aëllo,
and Ocypete. Virgil calls one of them Celæno: this, I doubt not, was
Alecto, whom Virgil calls, in the Third Æneïd, _Furiarum maxima_, and
in the sixth again by the same name--_Furiarum maxima juxta accubat_.
That she was the chief of the Furies, appears by her description in the
Seventh Æneïd; to which, for haste, I refer the reader.




POSTSCRIPT

TO

THE READER.


What Virgil wrote in the vigour of his age, in plenty and at ease,
I have undertaken to translate in my declining years; struggling
with wants, oppressed with sickness, curbed in my genius, liable to
be misconstrued in all I write; and my judges, if they are not very
equitable, already prejudiced against me, by the lying character which
has been given them of my morals. Yet, steady to my principles, and not
dispirited with my afflictions, I have, by the blessing of God on my
endeavours, overcome all difficulties, and, in some measure, acquitted
myself of the debt which I owed the public when I undertook this work.
In the first place, therefore, I thankfully acknowledge to the Almighty
Power the assistance he has given me in the beginning, the prosecution,
and conclusion, of my present studies, which are more happily performed
than I could have promised to myself, when I laboured under such
discouragements. For, what I have done, imperfect as it is for want
of health and leisure to correct it, will be judged in after-ages,
and possibly in the present, to be no dishonour to my native country,
whose language and poetry would be more esteemed abroad, if they were
better understood. Somewhat (give me leave to say) I have added to both
of them in the choice of words, and harmony of numbers, which were
wanting (especially the last) in all our poets, even in those who,
being endued with genius, yet have not cultivated their mother-tongue
with sufficient care; or, relying on the beauty of their thoughts, have
judged the ornament of words, and sweetness of sound, unnecessary.
One is for raking in Chaucer (our English Ennius) for antiquated
words, which are never to be revived, but when sound or significancy
is wanting in the present language. But many of his deserve not this
redemption, any more than the crowds of men who daily die, or are slain
for sixpence in a battle, merit to be restored to life, if a wish could
revive them. Others have no ear for verse, nor choice of words, nor
distinction of thoughts; but mingle farthings with their gold, to make
up the sum. Here is a field of satire opened to me: but, since the
Revolution, I have wholly renounced that talent: for who would give
physic to the great, when he is uncalled--to do his patient no good,
and endanger himself for his prescription? Neither am I ignorant, but I
may justly be condemned for many of those faults, of which I have too
liberally arraigned others.

----_Cynthius aurem
Vellit, et admonuit_----

It is enough for me, if the government will let me pass unquestioned.
In the mean time, I am obliged, in gratitude, to return my thanks
to many of them, who have not only distinguished me from others of
the same party, by a particular exception of grace, but, without
considering the man, have been bountiful to the poet--have encouraged
Virgil to speak such English as I could teach him, and rewarded his
interpreter for the pains he has taken in bringing him over into
Britain, by defraying the charges of his voyage. Even Cerberus, when
he had received the sop, permitted Æneas to pass freely to Elysium.
Had it been offered me, and I had refused it, yet still some gratitude
is due to such who were willing to oblige me: but how much more to
those from whom I have received the favours which they have offered
to one of a different persuasion! amongst whom I cannot omit naming
the Earls of Derby[15] and of Peterborough[16]. To the first of these
I have not the honour to be known; and therefore his liberality
was as much unexpected, as it was undeserved. The present Earl of
Peterborough has been pleased long since to accept the tenders of my
service: his favours are so frequent to me, that I receive them almost
by prescription. No difference of interests or opinion has been able
to withdraw his protection from me. And I might justly be condemned
for the most unthankful of mankind, if I did not always preserve for
him a most profound respect and inviolable gratitude. I must also add,
that, if the last Æneïd shine amongst its fellows, it is owing to the
commands of Sir William Trumball,[17] one of the principal secretaries
of state, who recommended it, as his favourite, to my care; and, for
his sake particularly, I have made it mine: for who would confess
weariness, when he enjoined a fresh labour? I could not but invoke the
assistance of a Muse, for this last office.

_Extremum hunc, Arethusa----
----Negat quis carmina Gallo? _

Neither am I to forget the noble present which was made me by Gilbert
Dolben, Esq. the worthy son of the late Archbishop of York,[18] who,
when I began this work, enriched me with all the several editions of
Virgil, and all the commentaries of those editions in Latin; amongst
which, I could not but prefer the Dauphin's, as the last, the shortest,
and the most judicious. Fabrini[19] I had also sent me from Italy; but
either he understands Virgil very imperfectly, or I have no knowledge
of my author.

Being invited by that worthy gentleman, Sir William Bowyer, to Denham
Court, I translated the First Georgic at his house, and the greatest
part of the last Æneïd. [20] A more friendly entertainment no man ever
found.
No wonder, therefore, if both those versions surpass the rest,
and own the satisfaction I received in his converse, with whom I had
the honour to be bred in Cambridge, and in the same college. The
Seventh Æneïd was made English at Burleigh, the magnificent abode of
the Earl of Exeter. [21] In a village belonging to his family I was
born;[22] and under his roof I endeavoured to make that Æneïd appear in
English with as much lustre as I could; though my author has not given
the finishing strokes either to it, or to the eleventh, as I perhaps
could prove in both, if I durst presume to criticise my master.

By a letter from William Walsh, of Abberley, Esq. [23] (who has so long
honoured me with his friendship, and who, without flattery, is the
best critic of our nation,) I have been informed, that his grace the
Duke of Shrewsbury[24] has procured a printed copy of the Pastorals,
Georgics, and six first Æneïds, from my bookseller, and has read them
in the country, together with my friend. This noble person having been
pleased to give them a commendation, which I presume not to insert,
has made me vain enough to boast of so great a favour, and to think
I have succeeded beyond my hopes; the character of his excellent
judgment, the acuteness of his wit, and his general knowledge of good
letters, being known as well to all the world, as the sweetness of
his disposition, his humanity, his easiness of access, and desire of
obliging those who stand in need of his protection, are known to all
who have approached him, and to me in particular, who have formerly
had the honour of his conversation. Whoever has given the world the
translation of part of the Third Georgic, which he calls "The Power of
Love," has put me to sufficient pains to make my own not inferior to
his;[25] as my Lord Roscommon's "Silenus" had formerly given me the
same trouble. The most ingenious Mr Addison of Oxford has also been as
troublesome to me as the other two, and on the same account. After his
"Bees," my latter swarm is scarcely worth the hiving. [26] Mr Cowley's
"Praise of a Country Life" is excellent, but is rather an imitation
of Virgil, than a version. That I have recovered, in some measure, the
health which I had lost by too much application to this work, is owing,
next to God's mercy, to the skill and care of Dr Guibbons[27] and Dr
Hobbs,[28] the two ornaments of their profession, whom I can only pay
by this acknowledgment. The whole faculty has always been ready to
oblige me; and the only one of them, who endeavoured to defame me, had
it not in his power. [29] I desire pardon from my readers for saying
so much in relation to myself, which concerns not them; and, with my
acknowledgments to all my subscribers, have only to add, that the few
Notes which follow, are _par manière d'acquit_, because I had obliged
myself by articles to do somewhat of that kind. [30] These scattering
observations are rather guesses at my author's meaning in some
passages, than proofs that so he meant. The unlearned may have recourse
to any poetical dictionary in English, for the names of persons,
places, or fables, which the learned need not: but that little which I
say, is either new or necessary; and the first of these qualifications
never fails to invite a reader, if not to please him.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 15: William Richard George, ninth earl of Derby. He died 5th
November, 1702. He joined early in the Revolution. ]

[Footnote 16: Charles Mordaunt, third earl of Peterborough, and first
earl of Monmouth of his family, is one of the most heroic characters,
according to ancient ideas of heroism, which occur in English history.
Under every disadvantage of want of money, and provisions, and men,
from England, of the united opposition of France, and almost all Spain,
and of the untoward and untractable disposition of Charles of Austria,
he had almost placed that prince upon the Spanish throne, in defiance
of all opposition, as well as of Charles's own imprudence. With an
army, which never amounted to 10,000 men, he drove triple the number
out of Spain before him; and, had he not been removed by a wretched
intrigue, he would have secured the kingdom, which he had effectually
conquered. Like other heroes, he was attached to literature, and
especially to poetry; and the conqueror of Spain was the patron of
Dryden, and the friend of Swift, Pope, and Gay. He was a keen Whig,
but not in favour with his party. "It is a perfect jest," says Swift,
in a letter to Archbishop King, 5th February, 1707-8, "to see my Lord
Peterborough, reputed as great a Whig as any man in England, abhorred
by his own party, and caressed by the Tories. " This great man died at
Lisbon, 1737, aged seventy-seven. ]

[Footnote 17: The name of Sir William Trumball is eminent among
those statesmen, who, amidst the fatigues of state, have found
leisure to cultivate the Muses. He had been ambassador to France
and Constantinople; and, in 1695, was raised to the high situation
mentioned in the text. In 1697, he resigned his employments, and
retired to East Hamstead, in Berkshire, where he early distinguished
the youthful genius of Pope. During the remaining years of Sir
William's life, the young bard and the old statesman were almost
inseparable companions. ]

[Footnote 18: Gilbert was the eldest son of John Dolben, Archbishop
of York; a man distinguished for bravery in the civil wars, and for
dignity of conduct in his episcopal station. Sir William Trumball
wrote a character of him, which is inserted in the new edition of the
_Biographia_, Vol. V. p. 330. The archbishop is celebrated by Dryden,
as a friend of David, in the first part of "Absalom and Achitophel. "
See Vol. IX. p. 243, 303. Of Gilbert Dolben's life, the munificence
extended to Dryden is perhaps the most memorable incident. ]

[Footnote 19: Printed at Venice, 1623. His countrymen claim for Fabrini
more respect than Dryden allows him. ]

[Footnote 20: Dryden gives a beautiful description of this spot in a
note on the beginning of the Second Georgic, Vol. XIV. p. 49. ]

[Footnote 21: John Cecil, fifth earl of Exeter. He was a non-juror,
and lived in retirement at his noble seat of Burleigh. Prior was
early patronised by his lordship; and dates from his mansion the
lively epistle to Fleetwood Shepherd. Mr Malone supposes Prior may
have assisted in composing his epitaph, where his character is thus
elegantly drawn: _Johannes Cecil, Baro de Burghley, Exoniæ comes, magni
Burleii abnepos haudquaquam degener. Egregiam enim indolem optimis
moribus optimis artibus excoluit. Humanioribus literis bene instructus,
peregre, plus vice simplici, profectus est. Et ab excultis Europæ
regionibus, multam antiquitatum linguarum, necnon et rerum civilium
scientiam reportavit. Cum nemo fortê meliùs vel aulam ornare, vel
curare respublicas posset, maluit tamen otium et secessum. Itaque
ruri suo vixit, eleganter, sumptuose, splendide, liberalibus studiis
oblectatus, amicis comis et jocundus, egenis largus, legum et ecclesiæ
Anglicanæ fortis semper propugnator. _]

[Footnote 22: Aldwincle, in Northamptonshire. ]

[Footnote 23: See Vol. XIII. p. 297. ]

[Footnote 24: Charles Talbot, the twelfth earl, and only duke of
Shrewsbury. He was bred a Catholic; but renounced the tenets of Rome
during the time of the Popish plot. Previous to the Revolution, he had
so strong a sense of the necessity of that measure, that he mortgaged
his estate for 40,000l. and retired into Holland, for the purpose of
offering his fealty, and sword, to the Prince of Orange. Accordingly,
when that great enterprize succeeded, he was advanced to the ducal
dignity, and loaded with office and honours. In 1700, the Duke went
upon the Continent for his health; and, on his return, finding the
Whigs disgusted at his having married a foreign lady, having visited
Rome, and, above all, having declined to enter actively into their
measures, he joined the Tories; he assisted in bringing about the peace
of Utrecht, being appointed ambassador extraordinary for that purpose;
and, finally, went to Ireland as lord-lieutenant. He died 1st February,
1717-18. --Mackay, or Davis, gives him the following character.

"Never was a greater mixture of honour, virtue, [_none_] and good
sense, in any one person, than in him. A great man, attended with a
sweetness of behaviour and easiness of conversation, _which charms all_
who come near him: Nothing of the stiffness of a statesman, yet the
capacity and knowledge of a piercing wit. He speaks French and Italian
as well as his native language: and, although but one eye, yet he has
a very charming countenance, and is the most generally beloved by the
ladies of any gentleman in his time. He is turned of forty years old. "

The little word _none_, within the crotchets, is inserted by Swift.
That wit elsewhere describes the duke "as a person of admirable
qualities; and, if he were somewhat more active, and less timorous
in business, no man would be thought comparable to him. "--_Letter to
Archbishop King, 20th May, 1712. _]

[Footnote 25: Mr Malone conjectures the concealed translator may have
been Lord Lansdowne, author of the poem which precedes that translation
in the Miscellanies. ]

[Footnote 26: Alluding to a translation of the Third Book of the
Georgics, exclusive of the story of Aristæus, which appeared in the
third volume of the Miscellanies; by the famous Addison, then of
Queen's College, Oxford. ]

[Footnote 27: The same of whom Dryden elsewhere says,

"Guibbons but guesses, nor is sure to save. "
]

[Footnote 28: Also an eminent physician of the time, ridiculed, in the
"Dispensary," under the title of Guiacum. ]

[Footnote 29: Alluding to his ancient foe, Sir Richard Blackmore.
See the "Epistle to Dryden of Chesterton," and the conclusion of the
Preface to the Fables. ]

[Footnote 30: A passage in a letter from our author to Jacob Tonson,
dated probably February 1695-6, lets us know yet more plainly, that
to the niggard disposition of this bookseller, we owe that the notes,
as here acknowledged, were rather slurred over, than written with
due care: "I am not sorry that you will not allow any thing towards
the Notes; for, to make them good, would have cost me half a year's
time at least. Those I write shall be only marginal, to help the
unlearned, who understand not the poetical fables. The Prefaces, as
I intend them, will be somewhat more learned. It would require seven
years to translate Virgil exactly; but, I promise you once more, to do
my best in the four remaining Books, as I have hitherto done in the
foregoing. --Upon trial, I find all of your trade are sharpers, and you
not more than others; therefore, I have not wholly left you. Mr Aston
does not blame you for getting as good a bargain as you could, though I
could have got a hundred pounds more; and you might have spared almost
all your trouble, if you had thought fit to publish the proposals for
the first subscriptions, for I have guineas offered me every day, if
there had been room; I believe, modestly speaking, I have refused
already twenty-five. I mislike nothing in your letter, therefore, but
only your upbraiding me with the public encouragement, and my own
reputation concerned in the notes; when I assure you I could not make
them to my mind in less than half a year's time. "]






POEMS

ASCRIBED TO DRYDEN.


_In this last division of poetry, those poems are placed
which have been ascribed to Dryden upon grounds more or less
satisfactory, yet do not seem entitled to be classed with his
acknowledged writings. To some of them he doubtless lent his
assistance, either from friendship to the author, or to the cause
in which they were written. But, even in these, the hand of Dryden
is not so effectually distinguished from that of the inferior
artist, as to entitle them to be removed from the apocryphal
station which is here assigned. Others I would have discarded
altogether, but from the consideration that they were not of great
length, and that the first complete edition of Dryden should
contain all that has hitherto been ascribed to our immortal Bard,
even upon loose and uncertain grounds. _




AN ESSAY UPON SATIRE.


Among the pieces fathered upon Dryden, without satisfactory reason,
this contains as little internal evidence as any of having received
even the touches of that great master. Yet, as is mentioned in the
Life of our poet, the suspicion of being the author subjected him
to the cowardly revenge of Rochester, who hired bravoes to beat
Dryden, in return for the severity with which he is here treated.
The versification is so harsh, and the satire so coarse and clumsy,
that I can hardly consent to think that Dryden did more than revise
and correct it. If he added a few lines here and there, he had so
industriously levelled them with the rest of the performance, that they
cannot be distinguished from it. The real author was Sheffield, Earl of
Mulgrave, afterwards Duke of Buckingham.

Like other lampoons of the time, the "Essay on Satire" was handed about
in manuscript copies, about November 1679. It is inserted in the quarto
edition of Sheffield Duke of Buckingham's Works, with many alterations
and improvements by Pope, to whose correction it had been subjected by
the noble poet. It is obvious, and has been well argued by Mr Malone,
that if Dryden had taken any considerable pains with the original copy,
Pope would have had but little to do.

Sheffield, in his "Essay on Poetry," pays our author a very
supercilious and aristocratic compliment on this, his own poem, having
been attributed to him, and the castigation which ensued:

Though praised and punished for another's rhimes,
His own deserve as much applause _sometimes_.

It is thus that noble authors distribute their praise, like their
bounty, duly seasoned with humbling admonition. In the copy of the
Essay, revised by Pope, this impertinent couplet is omitted.




AN

ESSAY UPON SATIRE.


How dull, and how insensible a beast
Is man, who yet would lord it o'er the rest!
Philosophers and poets vainly strove
In every age the lumpish mass to move;
But those were pedants, when compared with these,
Who know, not only to instruct, but please.
Poets alone found the delightful way,
Mysterious morals gently to convey
In charming numbers; so that as men grew
Pleased with their poems, they grew wiser too.
Satire has always shone among the rest;
And is the boldest way, if not the best,
To tell men freely of their foulest faults,
To laugh at their vain deeds, and vainer thoughts. [31]
In satire, too, the wise took different ways,
To each deserving its peculiar praise.
Some did all folly with just sharpness blame,
Whilst others laughed and scorned them into shame.
But of these two, the last succeeded best,
As men aim rightest when they shoot in jest.
Yet, if we may presume to blame our guides,
And censure those, who censure all besides,
In other things they justly are preferred;
In this alone methinks the ancients erred:
Against the grossest follies they declaim;
Hard they pursue, but hunt ignoble game.
Nothing is easier than such blots to hit,
And 'tis the talent of each vulgar wit:
Besides, 'tis labour lost; for, who would preach
Morals to Armstrong,[32] or dull Aston[33] teach?
'Tis being devout at play, wise at a ball,
Or bringing wit and friendship to Whitehall.
But with sharp eyes those nicer faults to find,
Which lie obscurely in the wisest mind,
That little speck which all the rest does spoil,--
To wash off that would be a noble toil;
Beyond the loose-writ libels of this age,
Or the forced scenes of our declining stage;
Above all censure too, each little wit
Will be so glad to see the greater hit;
Who judging better, though concerned the most,
Of such correction will have cause to boast.
In such a satire all would seek a share,
And every fool will fancy he is there.
Old story-tellers, too, must pine and die,
To see their antiquated wit laid by;
Like her, who missed her name in a lampoon,
And grieved to find herself decayed so soon.
No common coxcomb must be mentioned here;
Not the dull train of dancing sparks appear;
Nor fluttering officers, who never fight;
Of such a wretched rabble, who would write?
Much less half-wits; that's more against our rules;
For they are fops, the other are but fools.
Who would not be as silly as Dunbar? [34]
As dull as Monmouth,[35] rather than Sir Carr? [36]
The cunning courtier should be slighted too,
Who with dull knavery makes so much ado;
Till the shrewd fool, by thriving too too fast,
Like Æsop's fox, becomes a prey at last.
Nor shall the royal mistresses[37] be named,
Too ugly, or too easy to be blamed;
With whom each rhyming fool keeps such a pother,
They are as common that way as the other;
Yet, sauntering Charles, between his beastly brace, }
Meets with dissembling still in either place, }
Affected humour, or a painted face. }
In loyal libels we have often told him,
How one has jilted him, the other sold him:
How that affects to laugh, how this to weep;
But who can rail so long as he can sleep?
Was ever prince by two at once misled,
False, foolish, old, ill-natured, and ill-bred?
Earnely[39] and Aylesbury,[40] with all that race--
Of busy blockheads, shall have here no place;
At council set as foils on Dorset's score,
To make that great false jewel shine the more;
Who all that while was thought exceeding wise,
Only for taking pains, and telling lies.
But there's no meddling with such nauseous men;
Their very names have tired my lazy pen:
'Tis time to quit their company, and choose
Some fitter subject for a sharper muse.
First, let's behold the merriest man alive[41]
Against his careless genius vainly strive;
Quit his dear ease, some deep design to lay,
'Gainst a set time, and then forget the day:
Yet he will laugh at his best friends, and be
Just as good company as Nokes and Lee.
But when he aims at reason or at rule,
He turns himself the best to ridicule.
Let him at business ne'er so earnest sit,
Shew him but mirth, and bait that mirth with wit,
That shadow of a jest shall be enjoyed,
Though he left all mankind to be destroyed.
So cat transformed sat gravely and demure,
Till mouse appeared, and thought himself secure;
But soon the lady had him in her eye,
And from her friend did just as oddly fly.
Reaching above our nature does no good;
We must fall back to our old flesh and blood;
As by our little Machiavel we find,
That nimblest creature of the busy kind.
His limbs are crippled, and his body shakes; }
Yet his hard mind, which all this bustle makes, }
No pity of its poor companion takes. }
What gravity can hold from laughing out,
To see him drag his feeble legs about,
Like hounds ill-coupled? Jowler lugs him still
Through hedges, ditches, and through all that's ill.
'Twere crime in any man but him alone,
To use a body so, though 'tis one's own:
Yet this false comfort never gives him o'er,
That, whilst he creeps, his vigorous thoughts can soar:
Alas! that soaring to those few that know,
Is but a busy grovelling here below.
So men in rapture think they mount the sky, }
Whilst on the ground the entranced wretches lie: }
So modern fops have fancied they could fly. }
As the new earl,[42] with parts deserving praise,
And wit enough to laugh at his own ways,
Yet loses all soft days and sensual nights,
Kind nature checks, and kinder fortune slights;
Striving against his quiet all he can,
For the fine notion of a busy man.
And what is that at best, but one, whose mind
Is made to tire himself and all mankind?
For Ireland he would go; faith, let him reign;
For, if some odd fantastic lord would fain
Carry in trunks, and all my drudgery do,
I'll not only pay him, but admire him too.
But is there any other beast that lives,
Who his own harm so wittingly contrives?
Will any dog that has his teeth and stones,
Refinedly leave his bitches and his bones,
To turn a wheel? and bark to be employed,
While Venus is by rival dogs enjoyed?
Yet this fond man, to get a statesman's name,
Forfeits his friends, his freedom, and his fame.
Though satire nicely writ with humour stings
But those who merit praise in other things;
Yet we must needs this one exception make,
And break our rules for silly Tropos' sake;[43]
Who was too much despised to be accused,
And therefore scarce deserves to be abused;
Raised only by his mercenary tongue,
For railing smoothly, and for reasoning wrong.
As boys, on holidays let loose to play,
Lay waggish traps for girls that pass that way;
Then shout to see, in dirt and deep distress,
Some silly cit in her flowered foolish dress,--[44]
So have I mighty satisfaction found,
To see his tinsel reason on the ground;
To see the florid fool despised, and know it,
By some who scarce have words enough to show it;
For sense sits silent, and condemns for weaker
The finer, nay sometimes the wittier speaker:
But 'tis prodigious so much eloquence
Should be acquired by such little sense;
For words and wit did anciently agree,
And Tully was no fool, though this man be:
At bar abusive; on the bench unable;
Knave on the woolsack; fop at council-table.
These are the grievances of such fools as would
Be rather wise than honest, great than good.
Some other kind of wits must be made known,
Whose harmless errors hurt themselves alone;
Excess of luxury they think can please,
And laziness call loving of their ease;
To live dissolved in pleasures still they feign,
Though their whole life's but intermitting pain;
So much of surfeits, head-aches, claps are seen,
We scarce perceive the little time between;
Well-meaning men, who make this gross mistake,
And pleasure lose only for pleasure's sake;
Each pleasure has its price, and when we pay
Too much of pain, we squander life away.
Thus Dorset,[45] purring like a thoughtful cat,
Married,--but wiser puss ne'er thought of that;
And first he worried her with railing rhyme,
Like Pembroke's mastives at his kindest time;
Then for one night sold all his slavish life,
A teeming widow, but a barren wife.
Swelled by contact of such a fulsome toad,
He lugged about the matrimonial load;
Till fortune, blindly kind as well as he,
Has ill restored him to his liberty;
Which he would use in his old sneaking way,
Drinking all night, and dozing all the day;
Dull as Ned Howard, whom his brisker times
Had famed for dulness in malicious rhymes. [46]
Mulgrave[47] had much ado to 'scape the snare,
Though learned in all those arts that cheat the fair;
For, after all his vulgar marriage-mocks,
With beauty dazzled, Numps was in the stocks;
Deluded parents dried their weeping eyes,
To see him catch his Tartar for his prize:
The impatient town waited the wished-for change,
And cuckolds smiled in hopes of sweet revenge;
Till Petworth plot made us with sorrow see,
As his estate, his person too was free:
Him no soft thoughts, no gratitude could move;
To gold he fled from beauty and from love;
Yet failing there he keeps his freedom still,
Forced to live happily against his will;
'Tis not his fault, if too much wealth and power
Break not his boasted quiet every hour.
And little Sid. [48] for simile renowned,
Pleasure has always sought, but never found;
Though all his thoughts on wine and women fall,
His are so bad, sure he ne'er thinks at all.
The flesh he lives upon is rank and strong,
His meat and mistresses are kept too long.
But sure we all mistake this pious man,
Who mortifies his person all he can:
What we uncharitably take for sin,
Are only rules of this odd capuchin;
For never hermit, under grave pretence,
Has lived more contrary to common sense;
And 'tis a miracle, we may suppose,
No nastiness offends his skilful nose;
Which from all stink can, with peculiar art,
Extract perfume and essence from a f----t.
Expecting supper is his great delight;
He toils all day but to be drunk at night;
Then o'er his cups this night-bird chirping sits,
Till he takes Hewet[49] and Jack Hall[B] for wits.
Rochester I despise for want of wit,
Though thought to have a tail and cloven feet;
For, while he mischief means to all mankind,
Himself alone the ill effects does find;
And so, like witches, justly suffers shame,
Whose harmless malice is so much the same.
False are his words, affected is his wit;
So often he does aim, so seldom hit;
To every face he cringes while he speaks,
But when the back is turned the head he breaks.
Mean in each action, lewd in every limb,
Manners themselves are mischievous in him;
A proof that chance alone makes every creature,
A very Killigrew without good nature.
For what a Bessus[52] has he always lived,
And his own kickings notably contrived?
For, there's the folly that's still mixt with fear,
Cowards more blows than any hero bear;
Of fighting sparks some may their pleasures say,
But 'tis a bolder thing to run away.
The world may well forgive him all his ill,
For every fault does prove his penance still;
Falsely he falls into some dangerous noose,
And then as meanly labours to get loose;
A life so infamous is better quitting,
Spent in base injury and low submitting. [53]
I'd like to have left out his poetry;
Forgot by all almost as well as me.
Sometimes he has some humour, never wit,
And if it rarely, very rarely, hit,
'Tis under so much nasty rubbish laid,
To find it out's the cinderwoman's trade,
Who, for the wretched remnants of a fire,
Must toil all day in ashes and in mire.
So lewdly dull his idle works appear,
The wretched text deserves no comments here;
Where one poor thought sometimes, left all alone,
For a whole page of dulness must atone.
How vain a thing is man, and how unwise!
E'en he, who would himself the most despise!
I, who so wise and humble seem to be,
Now my own vanity and pride can't see.
While the world's nonsense is so sharply shown,
We pull down others but to raise our own;
That we may angels seem, we paint them elves,
And are but satires to set up ourselves.
I, who have all this while been finding fault,
E'en with my master, who first satire taught;
And did by that describe the task so hard,
It seems stupendous and above reward;
Now labour with unequal force to climb
That lofty hill, unreached by former time,--
'Tis just that I should to the bottom fall,
Learn to write well, or not to write at all.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 31: Would Dryden have pardoned such a rhyme? ]

[Footnote 32: Sir Thomas Armstrong, then an officer of the guards, and
gentleman of horse to the king. He seems to have been remarkable for
riot and profligacy, even in that profligate age; witness his stabbing
a gentleman in the pit of the theatre. Thus principled, he became,
unfortunately for himself and his patron, a favourite of the Duke of
Monmouth, and engaged deeply in all his intrigues, particularly in that
of the Rye-house plot, on the discovery of which he fled to Holland, of
which he was a native: nevertheless, he was there seized and delivered.
He was tried by Jefferies; and sustained the brutality of that judge
with more spirit than his friends or his enemies expected. Upon a
conviction of outlawry for treason, he was executed, June 1685. ]

[Footnote 33: Aston is mentioned as a sort of half wit in some of
the lampoons of the day; but I have not been able to trace any thing
of his history, except that he seems to have been a courtier of the
period; perhaps the same Colonel Aston, whom the reader will find
in a subsequent note, acting as Mulgrave's second, in an intended
duel with Rochester. If this be so, from the slight with which he is
here mentioned, there may have been a coolness in their friendship,
although, indeed, the mere want of _morals_ was not considered as an
insufferable stigma in the reign of Charles II. , and might pass for a
good-natured joke, were the epithet _dull_ omitted. The name Aston is
mentioned in the "Epistle to Julian. "]

[Footnote 34: Robert Constable, third Viscount of Dunbar. He is
elsewhere mentioned with the epithet of "brawny Dunbar. " He married,
1st, Mary, daughter of Lord Bellasis; 2dly, the countess-dowager of
Westmoreland. ]

[Footnote 35: The unfortunate duke; the qualities of whose mind did not
correspond to his exterior accomplishments. Rochester says of him,--

But, now we talk of Maestricht, where is he
Famed for that brutal piece of bravery?
He, with his thick impenetrable scull,
The solid hardened armour of a fool,
Well might himself to all war's ills expose,
Who, come what will, yet had no brains to lose.
]

[Footnote 36: Sir Carr Scroop, a poet and courtier. See Note on the
"Epistle to Julian. "]

[Footnote 37: The royal mistresses were, the Duchesses of Cleveland
and of Portsmouth. Neither was supposed over-scrupulous in fidelity to
their royal lover. The Duchess of Cleveland, in particular, lavished
her favours even upon Jacob Hall, the rope-dancer; at least, so
Count Hamilton assures us, in the "Memoirs of Grammont. " The Duchess
of Portsmouth was a pensioner of the French court; by whom she was
thrown into the arms of Charles, with the express purpose of securing
his attachment to the cause of France. Charles knew, as well as any
of his subjects, the infidelity of one mistress, and the treachery
of the other; and Sheffield has elsewhere vindicated the epithet of
"sauntering," which is here bestowed on that indolent monarch. "I am
of opinion," says the duke, "that, in his latter times, there was
as much of laziness as of love in all those hours he passed among
his mistresses; who, after all, only served to fill up his seraglio,
while a bewitching kind of pleasure, called _sauntering_, and talking
without constraint, was the true sultana-queen he delighted in. "[38]
While Sheffield thus solemnly confirms, in prose, the character given
of Charles in the "Essay upon Satire," he ascertains his claim to
the property of the poem. And I must add, I should be sorry to think
Dryden was accessary to lampooning persons, to whom he had offered the
incense of his verse. See the "Epistle to Lady Castlemain," afterwards
Duchess of Cleveland, and "The Fair Stranger," addressed to Louise
Querouailles, afterwards Duchess of Portsmouth. ]

[Footnote 38: _Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham's Works_, Vol.