The
habitation
of the Cumæan Sybil.
Dryden - Complete
Old clients, wearied out with fruitless care,
Dismiss their hopes of eating, and despair;
Though much against the grain, forced to retire,
Buy roots for supper, and provide a fire.
Meantime his lordship lolls within at ease,
Pampering his paunch with foreign rarities;
Both sea and land are ransacked for the feast,
And his own gut the sole invited guest.
Such plate, such tables, dishes dressed so well,
That whole estates are swallowed at a meal.
Even parasites are banished from his board;
(At once a sordid and luxurious lord;)
Prodigious throat, for which whole boars are drest;
(A creature formed to furnish out a feast. )
But present punishment pursues his maw,
When, surfeited and swelled, the peacock raw
He bears into the bath; whence want of breath,
Repletions, apoplex, intestate death.
His fate makes table-talk, divulged with scorn,
And he, a jest, into his grave is borne.
No age can go beyond us; future times
Can add no farther to the present crimes.
Our sons but the same things can wish and do; }
Vice is at stand, and at the highest flow. }
Then, Satire, spread thy sails, take all the winds can blow! }
Some may, perhaps, demand what muse can yield
Sufficient strength for such a spacious field?
From whence can be derived so large a vein,
Bold truths to speak, and spoken to maintain,
When godlike freedom is so far bereft
The noble mind, that scarce the name is left?
Ere _scandalum magnatum_ was begot,
No matter if the great forgave or not;
But if that honest licence now you take, }
If into rogues omnipotent you rake, }
Death is your doom, impaled upon a stake; }
Smeared o'er with wax, and set on fire, to light
The streets, and make a dreadful blaze by night.
Shall they, who drenched three uncles in a draught
Of poisonous juice, be then in triumph brought,
Make lanes among the people where they go, }
And, mounted high on downy chariots, throw }
Disdainful glances on the crowd below? }
Be silent, and beware, if such you see;
'Tis defamation but to say, That's he!
Against bold Turnus the great Trojan arm,
Amidst their strokes the poet gets no harm:
Achilles may in epic verse be slain,
And none of all his myrmidons complain:
Hylas may drop his pitcher, none will cry,
Not if he drown himself for company;
But when Lucilius brandishes his pen,
And flashes in the face of guilty men,
A cold sweat stands in drops on every part,
And rage succeeds to tears, revenge to smart. [77]
Muse, be advised; 'tis past considering time,
When entered once the dangerous lists of rhime;
Since none the living villains dare implead,
Arraign them in the persons of the dead.
FOOTNOTES:
[51] Codrus, or it may be Cordus, a bad poet, who wrote the life and
actions of Theseus. --[This and almost all the following notes are taken
from Dryden's first edition. Those which are supplied by the present
Editor, are distinguished by the letter E. ]
[52] The name of a tragedy.
[53] Another tragedy.
[54] Some commentators take this grove to be a place where poets were
used to repeat their works to the people; but more probably, both this
and Vulcan's grott, or cave, and the rest of the places and names here
mentioned, are only meant for the common places of Homer in his Iliads
and Odyssies.
[55] That is, the best and the worst poets.
[56] This was one of the themes given in the schools of rhetoricians,
in the deliberative kind; whether Sylla should lay down the supreme
power of dictatorship, or still keep it?
[57] Lucilius, the first satirist of the Romans, who wrote long before
Horace.
[58] Mævia, a name put for any impudent or mannish woman.
[59] Juvenal's barber, now grown wealthy.
[60] Crispinus, an Egyptian slave; now, by his riches, transformed into
a nobleman.
[61] The Romans were grown so effeminate in Juvenal's time, that they
wore light rings in the summer, and heavier in the winter.
[62] Matho, a famous lawyer, mentioned in other places by Juvenal and
Martial.
[63] Lyons, a city in France, where annual sacrifices and games were
made in honour of Augustus Cæsar.
[64] Here the poet complains, that the governors of provinces being
accused for their unjust exactions, though they were condemned at their
trials, yet got off by bribery.
[65] Horace, who wrote satires; it is more noble, says our author, to
imitate him in that way, than to write the labours of Hercules, the
sufferings of Diomedes and his followers, or the flight of Dædalus, who
made the Labyrinth, and the death of his son Icarus.
[66] Nero married Sporus, an eunuch; though it may be, the poet meant
Nero's mistress in man's apparel.
[67] Mecænas is often taxed by Seneca and others for his effeminacy.
[68] The meaning is, that the very consideration of such a crime will
hinder a virtuous man from taking his repose.
[69] Shadwell, our author's old enemy. --E.
[70] Deucalion and Pyrrha, when the world was drowned, escaped to the
top of Mount Parnassus, and were commanded to restore mankind, by
throwing stones over their heads; the stones he threw became men, and
those she threw became women.
[71] The ears of all slaves were bored, as a mark of their servitude;
which custom is still usual in the East Indies, and in other parts,
even for whole nations, who bore prodigious holes in their ears, and
wear vast weights at them.
[72] Pallus, a slave freed by Claudius Cæsar, and raised by his favour
to great riches. Licinius was another wealthy freedman belonging to
Augustus.
[73] Perhaps the storks were used to build on the top of the temple
dedicated to Concord.
[74] He calls the Roman knights, &c. harpies, or devourers. In those
days, the rich made doles intended for the poor; but the great were
either so covetous, or so needy, that they came in their litters
to demand their shares of the largess; and thereby prevented, and
consequently starved, the poor.
[75] The meaning is, that noblemen would cause empty litters to be
carried to the giver's door, pretending their wives were within them.
"'Tis Galla," that is, my wife; the next words, "Let her ladyship but
peep," are of the servant who distributes the dole; "Let me see her,
that I may be sure she is within the litter. " The husband answers, "She
is asleep, and to open the litter would disturb her rest. "
[76] The poet here tells you how the idle passed their time; in going
first to the levees of the great; then to the hall, that is, to the
temple of Apollo, to hear the lawyers plead; then to the market-place
of Augustus, where the statues of the famous Romans were set in ranks
on pedestals; amongst which statues were seen those of foreigners, such
as Arabs, &c. who, for no desert, but only on account of their wealth
or favour, were placed amongst the noblest.
[77] A poet may safely write an heroic poem, such as that of Virgil,
who describes the duel of Turnus and Æneas; or of Homer, who writes of
Achilles and Hector; or the death of Hylas, the catamite of Hercules,
who, stooping for water, dropt his pitcher, and fell into the well
after it: but it is dangerous to write satire, like Lucilius.
THE
THIRD SATIRE
OF
JUVENAL.
THE ARGUMENT.
_The story of this satire speaks itself. Umbritius, the
supposed friend of Juvenal, and himself a poet, is leaving
Rome, and retiring to Cumæ. Our author accompanies him out
of town. Before they take leave of each other, Umbritius
tells his friend the reasons which oblige him to lead a
private life, in an obscure place. He complains, that an
honest man cannot get his bread at Rome; that none but
flatterers make their fortunes there; that Grecians, and
other foreigners, raise themselves by those sordid arts
which he describes, and against which he bitterly inveighs.
He reckons up the several inconveniences which arise from a
city life, and the many dangers which attend it; upbraids
the noblemen with covetousness, for not rewarding good
poets; and arraigns the government for starving them.
The great art of this satire is particularly shown in
common-places; and drawing in as many vices, as could
naturally fall into the compass of it. _
Grieved though I am an ancient friend to lose, }
I like the solitary seat he chose, }
In quiet Cumæ[78] fixing his repose: }
Where, far from noisy Rome, secure he lives,
And one more citizen to Sybil gives;
The road to Baiæ,[79] and that soft recess
Which all the gods with all their bounty bless;
Though I in Prochyta[80] with greater ease
Could live, than in a street of palaces.
What scene so desert, or so full of fright, }
As towering houses, tumbling in the night, }
And Rome on fire beheld by its own blazing light? }
But worse than all the clattering tiles, and worse
Than thousand padders, is the poet's curse;
Rogues, that in dog-days cannot rhyme forbear,[81]
But without mercy read, and make you hear.
Now while my friend, just ready to depart,
Was packing all his goods in one poor cart,
He stopt a little at the Conduit-gate,
Where Numa modelled once the Roman state,[82]
In mighty councils with his nymph retired;[83]
Though now the sacred shades and founts are hired
By banished Jews, who their whole wealth can lay
In a small basket, on a wisp of hay;[84]
Yet such our avarice is, that every tree
Pays for his head, nor sleep itself is free;
Nor place, nor persons, now are sacred held,
From their own grove the muses are expelled.
Into this lonely vale our steps we bend,
I and my sullen discontented friend;
The marble caves and aqueducts we view;
But how adulterate now, and different from the true!
How much more beauteous had the fountain been
Embellished with her first created green,
Where crystal streams through living turf had run,
Contented with an urn of native stone!
Then thus Umbritius, with an angry frown,
And looking back on this degenerate town:--
Since noble arts in Rome have no support,
And ragged virtue not a friend at court,
No profit rises from the ungrateful stage,
My poverty encreasing with my age;
'Tis time to give my just disdain a vent,
And, cursing, leave so base a government.
Where Dædalus his borrowed wings laid by,[85]
To that obscure retreat I chuse to fly:
While yet few furrows on my face are seen, }
While I walk upright, and old age is green, }
And Lachesis has somewhat left to spin. [86] }
Now, now 'tis time to quit this cursed place,
And hide from villains my too honest face:
Here let Arturius live,[87] and such as he;
Such manners will with such a town agree.
Knaves, who in full assemblies have the knack
Of turning truth to lies, and white to black,
Can hire large houses, and oppress the poor
By farmed excise; can cleanse the common-shore,
And rent the fishery; can bear the dead, }
And teach their eyes dissembled tears to shed; }
All this for gain; for gain they sell their very head. }
These fellows (see what fortune's power can do! )
Were once the minstrels of a country show;
Followed the prizes through each paltry town,
By trumpet-cheeks and bloated faces known.
But now, grown rich, on drunken holidays,
At their own costs exhibit public plays;
Where, influenced by the rabble's bloody will,
With thumbs bent back, they popularly kill. [88]
From thence returned, their sordid avarice rakes
In excrements again, and hires the jakes.
Why hire they not the town, not every thing,
Since such as they have fortune in a string,
Who, for her pleasure, can her fools advance,
And toss them topmost on the wheel of chance?
What's Rome to me, what business have I there?
I who can neither lie, nor falsely swear?
Nor praise my patron's undeserving rhymes,
Nor yet comply with him, nor with his times?
Unskilled in schemes by planets to foreshow,
Like canting rascals, how the wars will go:
I neither will, nor can, prognosticate
To the young gaping heir, his father's fate;
Nor in the entrails of a toad have pried,
Nor carried bawdy presents to a bride:
For want of these town-virtues, thus alone
I go, conducted on my way by none;
Like a dead member from the body rent,
Maimed, and unuseful to the government.
Who now is loved, but he who loves the times,
Conscious of close intrigues, and dipt in crimes,
Labouring with secrets which his bosom burn,
Yet never must to public light return?
They get reward alone, who can betray;
For keeping honest counsels none will pay.
He who can Verres[89] when he will accuse,
The purse of Verres may at pleasure use:
But let not all the gold which Tagus hides,
And pays the sea in tributary tides,[90]
Be bribe sufficient to corrupt thy breast,
Or violate with dreams thy peaceful rest.
Great men with jealous eyes the friend behold,
Whose secrecy they purchase with their gold.
I haste to tell thee,--nor shall shame oppose,--
What confidents our wealthy Romans chose;
And whom I must abhor: to speak my mind,
I hate, in Rome, a Grecian town to find;
To see the scum of Greece transplanted here,
Received like gods, is what I cannot bear.
Nor Greeks alone, but Syrians here abound;
Obscene Orontes,[91] diving under ground,
Conveys his wealth to Tyber's hungry shores,
And fattens Italy with foreign whores:
Hither their crooked harps and customs come;
All find receipt in hospitable Rome.
The barbarous harlots crowd the public place:-- }
Go, fools, and purchase an unclean embrace; }
The painted mitre court, and the more painted face. }
Old Romulus,[92] and father Mars, look down! }
Your herdsman primitive, your homely clown, }
Is turned a beau in a loose tawdry gown. }
His once unkem'd and horrid locks, behold
'Stilling sweet oil; his neck enchained with gold;
Aping the foreigners in every dress,
Which, bought at greater cost, becomes him less.
Meantime they wisely leave their native land;
From Sycion, Samos, and from Alaband,
And Amydon, to Rome they swarm in shoals:
So sweet and easy is the gain from fools.
Poor refugees at first, they purchase here;
And, soon as denizened, they domineer;
Grow to the great, a flattering, servile rout,
Work themselves inward, and their patrons out.
Quick-witted, brazen-faced, with fluent tongues,
Patient of labours, and dissembling wrongs.
Riddle me this, and guess him if you can,
Who bears a nation in a single man?
A cook, a conjurer, a rhetorician, }
A painter, pedant, a geometrician, }
A dancer on the ropes, and a physician; }
All things the hungry Greek exactly knows,
And bid him go to heaven, to heaven he goes.
In short, no Scythian, Moor, or Thracian born,
But in that town which arms and arts adorn. [93]
Shall he be placed above me at the board,
In purple clothed, and lolling like a lord?
Shall he before me sign, whom t'other day }
A small-craft vessel hither did convey, }
Where, stowed with prunes, and rotten figs, he lay? }
How little is the privilege become
Of being born a citizen of Rome!
The Greeks get all by fulsome flatteries;
A most peculiar stroke they have at lies.
They make a wit of their insipid friend,
His blubber-lips and beetle-brows commend,
His long crane-neck and narrow shoulders praise,--
You'd think they were describing Hercules.
A creaking voice for a clear treble goes;
Though harsher than a cock, that treads and crows.
We can as grossly praise; but, to our grief,
No flattery but from Grecians gains belief.
Besides these qualities, we must agree,
They mimic better on the stage than we:
The wife, the whore, the shepherdess, they play,
In such a free, and such a graceful way,
That we believe a very woman shown,
And fancy something underneath the gown.
But not Antiochus, nor Stratocles,[94] }
Our ears and ravished eyes can only please; }
The nation is composed of such as these. }
All Greece is one comedian; laugh, and they
Return it louder than an ass can bray;
Grieve, and they grieve; if you weep silently, }
There seems a silent echo in their eye; }
They cannot mourn like you, but they can cry. }
Call for a fire, their winter clothes they take;
Begin but you to shiver, and they shake;
In frost and snow, if you complain of heat,
They rub the unsweating brow, and swear they sweat.
We live not on the square with such as these;
Such are our betters who can better please;
Who day and night are like a looking-glass,
Still ready to reflect their patron's face;
The panegyric hand, and lifted eye,
Prepared for some new piece of flattery.
Even nastiness occasions will afford;
They praise a belching, or well-pissing lord.
Besides, there's nothing sacred, nothing free
From bold attempts of their rank lechery.
Through the whole family their labours run; }
The daughter is debauched, the wife is won; }
Nor 'scapes the bridegroom, or the blooming son. }
If none they find for their lewd purpose fit,
They with the walls and very floors commit.
They search the secrets of the house, and so
Are worshipped there, and feared for what they know.
And, now we talk of Grecians, cast a view }
On what, in schools, their men of morals do. }
A rigid stoick his own pupil slew; }
A friend, against a friend of his own cloth,
Turned evidence, and murdered on his oath. [95]
What room is left for Romans in a town
Where Grecians rule, and cloaks controul the gown?
Some Diphilus, or some Protogenes,[96]
Look sharply out, our senators to seize;
Engross them wholly, by their native art,
And fear no rivals in their bubbles' heart:
One drop of poison in my patron's ear,
One slight suggestion of a senseless fear,
Infused with cunning, serves to ruin me;
Disgraced, and banished from the family.
In vain forgotten services I boast;
My long dependence in an hour is lost.
Look round the world, what country will appear,
Where friends are left with greater ease than here?
At Rome (nor think me partial to the poor)
All offices of ours are out of door:
In vain we rise, and to the levees run;
My lord himself is up before, and gone:
The prætor bids his lictors mend their pace,
Lest his colleague outstrip him in the race.
The childless matrons are, long since, awake,
And for affronts the tardy visits take.
'Tis frequent here to see a free-born son
On the left hand of a rich hireling run;
Because the wealthy rogue can throw away,
For half a brace of bouts, a tribune's pay;
But you, poor sinner, though you love the vice,
And like the whore, demur upon the price;
And, frighted with the wicked sum, forbear
To lend a hand, and help her from the chair.
Produce a witness of unblemished life,
Holy as Numa, or as Numa's wife,
Or him who bid the unhallowed flames retire,
And snatched the trembling goddess from the fire;[97]
The question is not put how far extends
His piety, but what he yearly spends;
Quick, to the business; how he lives and eats;
How largely gives; how splendidly he treats;
How many thousand acres feed his sheep;
What are his rents; what servants does he keep?
The account is soon cast up; the judges rate
Our credit in the court by our estate.
Swear by our gods, or those the Greeks adore,
Thou art as sure forsworn, as thou art poor:
The poor must gain their bread by perjury; }
And e'en the gods, that other means deny, }
In conscience must absolve them, when they lie. }
Add, that the rich have still a gibe in store,
And will be monstrous witty on the poor;
For the torn surtout and the tattered vest,
The wretch and all his wardrobe, are a jest;
The greasy gown, sullied with often turning,
Gives a good hint, to say,--The man's in mourning;
Or, if the shoe be ripped, or patches put,--
He's wounded! see the plaister on his foot.
Want is the scorn of every wealthy fool,
And wit in rags is turned to ridicule.
Pack hence, and from the covered benches rise,
(The master of the ceremonies cries,)
This is no place for you, whose small estate
Is not the value of the settled rate;
The sons of happy punks, the pandar's heir, }
Are privileged to sit in triumph there, }
To clap the first, and rule the theatre. }
Up to the galleries, for shame, retreat;
For, by the Roscian law,[98] the poor can claim no seat. --
Who ever brought to his rich daughter's bed,
The man that polled but twelve pence for his head?
Who ever named a poor man for his heir,
Or called him to assist the judging chair?
The poor were wise, who, by the rich oppressed,
Withdrew, and sought a secret place of rest. [99]
Once they did well, to free themselves from scorn;
But had done better, never to return.
Rarely they rise by virtue's aid, who lie
Plunged in the depth of helpless poverty.
At Rome 'tis worse, where house-rent by the year, }
And servants' bellies, cost so devilish dear, }
And tavern-bills run high for hungry cheer. }
To drink or eat in earthen-ware we scorn, }
Which cheaply country-cupboards does adorn, }
And coarse blue hoods on holidays are worn. }
Some distant parts of Italy are known,
Where none but only dead men wear a gown;[100]
On theatres of turf, in homely state,
Old plays they act, old feasts they celebrate;
The same rude song returns upon the crowd,
And, by tradition, is for wit allowed.
The mimic yearly gives the same delights;
And in the mother's arms the clownish infant frights.
Their habits (undistinguished by degree) }
Are plain, alike; the same simplicity, }
Both on the stage, and in the pit, you see. }
In his white cloak the magistrate appears;
The country bumpkin the same livery wears.
But here attired beyond our purse we go,
For useless ornament and flaunting show;
We take on trust, in purple robes to shine,
And poor, are yet ambitious to be fine.
This is a common vice, though all things here
Are sold, and sold unconscionably dear.
What will you give that Cossus[101] may but view
Your face, and in the crowd distinguish you;
May take your incense like a gracious God,
And answer only with a civil nod?
To please our patrons, in this vicious age,
We make our entrance by the favourite page;
Shave his first down, and when he polls his hair,
The consecrated locks to temples bear;
Pay tributary cracknels, which he sells,
And with our offerings help to raise his vails.
Who fears in country-towns a house's fall,
Or to be caught betwixt a riven wall?
But we inhabit a weak city here,
Which buttresses and props but scarcely bear;
And 'tis the village-mason's daily calling,
To keep the world's metropolis from falling,
To cleanse the gutters, and the chinks to close,
And, for one night, secure his lord's repose.
At Cumæ we can sleep quite round the year,
Nor falls, nor fires, nor nightly dangers fear;
While rolling flames from Roman turrets fly,
And the pale citizens for buckets cry.
Thy neighbour has removed his wretched store,
Few hands will rid the lumber of the poor;
Thy own third story smokes, while thou, supine,
Art drenched in fumes of undigested wine.
For if the lowest floors already burn,
Cock-lofts and garrets soon will take the turn,
Where thy tame pigeons next the tiles were bred,[102]
Which, in their nests unsafe, are timely fled.
Codrus[103] had but one bed, so short to boot,
That his short wife's short legs hung dangling out;
His cupboard's head six earthen pitchers graced,
Beneath them was his trusty tankard placed;
And, to support this noble plate, there lay
A bending Chiron cast from honest clay;
His few Greek books a rotten chest contained,
Whose covers much of mouldiness complained;
Where mice and rats devoured poetic bread,
And with heroic verse luxuriously were fed.
'Tis true, poor Codrus nothing had to boast,
And yet poor Codrus all that nothing lost;
Begged naked through the streets of wealthy Rome,
And found not one to feed, or take him home.
But, if the palace of Arturius burn,
The nobles change their clothes, the matrons mourn;
The city-prætor will no pleadings hear; }
The very name of fire we hate and fear, }
And look aghast, as if the Gauls were here. }
While yet it burns, the officious nation flies,
Some to condole, and some to bring supplies.
One sends him marble to rebuild, and one
White naked statues of the Parian stone,
The work of Polyclete, that seem to live;
While others images for altars give;
One books and skreens, and Pallas to the breast;
Another bags of gold, and he gives best.
Childless Arturius, vastly rich before,
Thus, by his losses, multiplies his store;
Suspected for accomplice to the fire,
That burnt his palace but to build it higher.
But, could you be content to bid adieu
To the dear playhouse, and the players too,
Sweet country-seats are purchased every where, }
With lands and gardens, at less price than here }
You hire a darksome dog-hole by the year. }
A small convenience decently prepared,
A shallow well, that rises in your yard,
That spreads his easy crystal streams around,
And waters all the pretty spot of ground.
There, love the fork, thy garden cultivate,
And give thy frugal friends a Pythagorean treat;[104]
'Tis somewhat to be lord of some small ground,
In which a lizard may, at least, turn round.
'Tis frequent here, for want of sleep, to die, }
Which fumes of undigested feasts deny, }
And, with imperfect heat, in languid stomachs fry. }
What house secure from noise the poor can keep,
When even the rich can scarce afford to sleep?
So dear it costs to purchase rest in Rome,
And hence the sources of diseases come.
The drover, who his fellow-drover meets
In narrow passages of winding streets;
The waggoners, that curse their standing teams,
Would wake even drowsy Drusus from his dreams.
And yet the wealthy will not brook delay,
But sweep above our heads, and make their way,
In lofty litters borne, and read and write,
Or sleep at ease, the shutters make it night;
Yet still he reaches first the public place.
The press before him stops the client's pace;
The crowd that follows crush his panting sides,
And trip his heels; he walks not, but he rides.
One elbows him, one jostles in the shole,
A rafter breaks his head, or chairman's pole;
Stocking'd with loads of fat town-dirt he goes, }
And some rogue-soldier, with his hob-nailed shoes, }
Indents his legs behind in bloody rows. }
See, with what smoke our doles we celebrate: }
A hundred guests, invited, walk in state; }
A hundred hungry slaves, with their Dutch kitchens, wait. }
Huge pans the wretches on their heads must bear,
Which scarce gigantic Corbulo[105] could rear;
Yet they must walk upright beneath the load,
Nay run, and, running, blow the sparkling flames abroad.
Their coats, from botching newly brought, are torn.
Unwieldy timber-trees, in waggons borne,
Stretched at their length, beyond their carriage lie,
That nod, and threaten ruin from on high;
For, should their axle break, its overthrow }
Would crush, and pound to dust, the crowd below; }
Nor friends their friends, nor sires their sons could know; }
Nor limbs, nor bones, nor carcase, would remain,
But a mashed heap, a hotchpotch of the slain;
One vast destruction; not the soul alone,
But bodies, like the soul, invisible are flown.
Meantime, unknowing of their fellow's fate,
The servants wash the platter, scower the plate,
Then blow the fire, with puffing cheeks, and lay }
The rubbers, and the bathing-sheets display, }
And oil them first; and each is handy in his way. }
But he, for whom this busy care they take,
Poor ghost! is wandering by the Stygian lake;
Affrighted with the ferryman's grim face,
New to the horrors of that uncouth place,
His passage begs, with unregarded prayer,
And wants two farthings to discharge his fare.
Return we to the dangers of the night. --
And, first, behold our houses' dreadful height;
From whence come broken potsherds tumbling down, }
And leaky ware from garret-windows thrown; }
Well may they break our heads, that mark the flinty stone. }
'Tis want of sense to sup abroad too late,
Unless thou first hast settled thy estate;
As many fates attend thy steps to meet,
As there are waking windows in the street.
Bless the good Gods, and think thy chance is rare,
To have a piss-pot only for thy share.
The scouring drunkard, if he does not fight
Before his bed-time, takes no rest that night;
Passing the tedious hours in greater pain
Than stern Achilles, when his friend was slain;
'Tis so ridiculous, but so true withal,
A bully cannot sleep without a brawl.
Yet, though his youthful blood be fired with wine,
He wants not wit the danger to decline;
Is cautious to avoid the coach and six,
And on the lacquies will no quarrel fix.
His train of flambeaux, and embroidered coat,
May privilege my lord to walk secure on foot;
But me, who must by moon-light homeward bend,
Or lighted only with a candle's end,
Poor me he fights, if that be fighting, where
He only cudgels, and I only bear.
He stands, and bids me stand; I must abide,
For he's the stronger, and is drunk beside.
Where did you whet your knife to-night, he cries,
And shred the leeks that in your stomach rise?
Whose windy beans have stuft your guts, and where
Have your black thumbs been dipt in vinegar?
With what companion-cobler have you fed,
On old ox-cheeks, or he-goat's tougher head?
What, are you dumb? Quick, with your answer, quick,
Before my foot salutes you with a kick.
Say, in what nasty cellar, under ground,
Or what church-porch, your rogueship may be found? --
Answer, or answer not, 'tis all the same,
He lays me on, and makes me bear the blame.
Before the bar for beating him you come;
This is a poor man's liberty in Rome.
You beg his pardon; happy to retreat
With some remaining teeth, to chew your meat.
Nor is this all; for when, retired, you think
To sleep securely, when the candles wink,
When every door with iron chains is barred,
And roaring taverns are no longer heard;
The ruffian robbers, by no justice awed,
And unpaid cut-throat soldiers, are abroad;
Those venal souls, who, hardened in each ill,
To save complaints and prosecution, kill.
Chased from their woods and bogs, the padders come }
To this vast city, as their native home, }
To live at ease, and safely skulk in Rome. }
The forge in fetters only is employed;
Our iron mines exhausted and destroyed
In shackles; for these villains scarce allow
Goads for the teams, and plough-shares for the plough.
Oh, happy ages of our ancestors,
Beneath the kings and tribunitial powers!
One jail did all their criminals restrain,
Which now the walls of Rome can scarce contain.
More I could say, more causes I could show
For my departure, but the sun is low;
The waggoner grows weary of my stay,
And whips his horses forwards on their way.
Farewell! and when, like me, o'erwhelmed with care, }
You to your own Aquinam[106] shall repair, }
To take a mouthful of sweet country air, }
Be mindful of your friend; and send me word,
What joys your fountains and cool shades afford.
Then, to assist your satires, I will come,
And add new venom when you write of Rome.
FOOTNOTES:
[78] Cumæ, a small city in Campania, near Puteoli, or Puzzolo, as it is
called.
The habitation of the Cumæan Sybil.
[79] Baiæ, another little town in Campania, near the sea: a pleasant
place.
[80] Prochyta, a small barren island belonging to the kingdom of Naples.
[81] The poets in Juvenal's time used to rehearse their poetry in
August.
[82] Numa, the second king of Rome, who made their laws, and instituted
their religion.
[83] Ægeria, a nymph, or goddess, with whom Numa feigned to converse by
night; and to be instructed by her, in modelling his superstitions.
[84] We have a similar account of the accommodation of these vagabond
Israelites, in the Sixth Satire, where the prophetic Jewess plies her
customers:
----_cophino, fænoque relicto. _
Her goods a basket, and old hay her bed;
She strolls, and telling fortunes, gains her bread. --EDITOR.
[85] Dædalus, in his flight from Crete, alighted at Cumæ.
[86] Lachesis is one of the three destinies, whose office was to spin
the life of every man; as it was of Clotho to hold the distaff, and
Atropos to cut the thread.
[87] Arturius means any debauched wicked fellow, who gains by the times.
[88] In a prize of sword-players, when one of the fencers had the
other at his mercy, the vanquished party implored the clemency of the
spectators. If they thought he deserved it not, they held up their
thumbs, and bent them backwards in sign of death.
[89] Verres, præter in Sicily, contemporary with Cicero, by whom
accused of oppressing the province, he was condemned: his name is used
here for any rich vicious man.
[90] Tagus, a famous river in Spain, which discharges itself into the
ocean near Lisbon, in Portugal. It was held of old to be full of golden
sands.
[91] Orontes, the greatest river of Syria. The poet here puts the river
for the inhabitants of Syria.
[92] Romulus was the first king of Rome, and son of Mars, as the poets
feign. The first Romans were herdsmen.
[93] Athens, of which Pallas, the Goddess of Arms and Arts, was
patroness.
[94] Antiochus and Stratocles, two famous Grecian mimics, or actors, in
the poet's time.
[95] Publius Egnatius, a stoick, falsely accused Bareas Soranus, as
Tacitus tells us.
[96] Grecians living in Rome.
[97] Lucius Metellus, the high priest, who, when the temple of Vesta
was on fire, saved the Palladium.
[98] Roscius, a tribune, ordered the distinction of places at public
shows, betwixt the noblemen of Rome and the plebeians.
[99] Alluding to the secession of the Plebeians to the Mons Sacer,
or Sacred Hill, as it was called, when they were persecuted by the
aristocracy. This very extraordinary resignation of their faculty, on
the part of the common people, was not singular in the Roman history.
It argues a much more inconsiderable population than the ancient
writers would have us believe. EDITOR.
[100] The meaning is, that men in some parts of Italy never wore a
gown, the usual habit of the Romans, till they were buried in one.
[101] Any wealthy man.
[102] The Romans used to breed their tame pigeons in their garrets.
[103] Codrus, a learned man, very poor: by his books, supposed to be a
poet; for, in all probability, the heroic verses here mentioned, which
rats and mice devoured, were Homer's works.
[104] Herbs, roots, fruits, and sallads.
[105] Corbulo was a famous general, in Nero's time, who conquered
Armenia, and was afterwards put to death by that tyrant, when he was in
Greece, in reward of his great services. His stature was not only tall
above the ordinary size, but he was also proportionably strong.
[106] The birth-place of Juvenal.
THE
SIXTH SATIRE
OF
JUVENAL.
THE ARGUMENT.
_This Satire, of almost double length to any of the rest, is
a bitter invective against the fair sex. It is, indeed, a
common-place, from whence all the moderns have notoriously
stolen their sharpest railleries. In his other satires,
the poet has only glanced on some particular women, and
generally scourged the men; but this he reserved wholly for
the ladies. How they had offended him, I know not; but,
upon the whole matter, he is not to be excused for imputing
to all, the vices of some few amongst them. Neither was
it generously done of him, to attack the weakest, as well
as the fairest, part of the creation; neither do I know
what moral he could reasonably draw from it. It could not
be to avoid the whole sex, if all had been true which he
alleges against them; for that had been to put an end to
human kind. And to bid us beware of their artifices, is
a kind of silent acknowledgment, that they have more wit
than men; which turns the satire upon us, and particularly
upon the poet, who thereby makes a compliment, where he
meant a libel. If he intended only to exercise his wit, he
has forfeited his judgment, by making the one half of his
readers his mortal enemies; and amongst the men, all the
happy lovers, by their own experience, will disprove his
accusations. The whole world must allow this to be the
wittiest of his satires; and truly he had need of all his
parts, to maintain, with so much violence, so unjust a
charge. I am satisfied he will bring but few over to his
opinion; and on that consideration chiefly I ventured to
trans late him. Though there wanted not another reason,
which was, that no one else would undertake it; at
least, Sir C. S. , who could have done more right to the
author, after a long delay, at length absolutely refused
so ungrateful an employment; and every one will grant,
that the work must have been imperfect and lame, if it had
appeared without one of the principal members belonging
to it. Let the poet, therefore, bear the blame of his own
invention; and let me satisfy the world, that I am not of
his opinion. Whatever his Roman ladies were, the English
are free from all his imputations. They will read with
wonder and abhorrence the vices of an age, which was the
most infamous of any on record. They will bless themselves
when they behold those examples, related of Domitian's
time; they will give back to antiquity those monsters it
produced, and believe, with reason, that the species of
those women is extinguished, or, at least, that they were
never here propagated. I may safely, therefore, proceed
to the argument of a satire, which is no way relating to
them; and first observe, that my author makes their lust
the most heroic of their vices; the rest are in a manner
but digression. He skims them over, but he dwells on this;
when he seems to have taken his last leave of it, on the
sudden he returns to it: It is one branch of it in Hippia,
another in Messalina, but lust is the main body of the tree.
He begins with this text in the first line, and takes it
up, with intermissions, to the end of the chapter. Every
vice is a loader, but that is a ten. The fillers, or
intermediate parts, are--their revenge; their contrivances
of secret crimes; their arts to hide them; their wit to
excuse them; and their impudence to own them, when they can
no longer be kept secret. Then the persons to whom they
are most addicted, and on whom they commonly bestow the
last favours, as stage-players, fiddlers, singing-boys, and
fencers. Those who pass for chaste amongst them, are not
really so; but only, for their vast doweries, are rather
suffered, than loved, by their own husbands. That they are
imperious, domineering, scolding wives; set up for learning,
and criticism in poetry; but are false judges: Love to
speak Greek, (which was then the fashionable tongue, as
French is now with us). That they plead causes at the bar,
and play prizes at the bear-garden: That they are gossips
and newsmongers; wrangle with their neighbours abroad,
and beat their servants at home: That they lie-in for new
faces once a month; are sluttish with their husbands in
private, and paint and dress in public for their lovers: That
they deal with Jews, diviners, and fortune-tellers; learn
the arts of miscarrying and barrenness; buy children, and
produce them for their own; murder their husbands' sons,
if they stand in their way to his estate, and make their
adulterers his heirs. From hence the poet proceeds to show
the occasions of all these vices, their original, and how
they were introduced in Rome by peace, wealth, and luxury.
In conclusion, if we will take the word of our malicious
author, bad women are the general standing rule; and the
good, but some few exceptions to it. _
In Saturn's reign, at Nature's early birth,
There was that thing called Chastity on earth;
When in a narrow cave, their common shade,
The sheep, the shepherds, and their gods were laid;
When reeds, and leaves, and hides of beasts, were spread, }
By mountain-housewives, for their homely bed, }
And mossy pillows raised, for the rude husband's head. }
Unlike the niceness of our modern dames,
(Affected nymphs, with new-affected names,)
The Cynthias, and the Lesbias of our years,
Who for a sparrow's death dissolve in tears,
Those first unpolished matrons, big and bold,
Gave suck to infants of gigantic mould;
Rough as their savage lords, who ranged the wood,
And, fat with acorns, belched their windy food.
For when the world was buxom, fresh, and young,
Her sons were undebauched, and therefore strong;
And whether born in kindly beds of earth,
Or struggling from the teeming oaks to birth,
Or from what other atoms they begun,
No sires they had, or, if a sire, the sun.
Some thin remains of chastity appeared
Even under Jove,[107] but Jove without a beard;
Before the servile Greeks had learnt to swear
By heads of kings; while yet the bounteous year
Her common fruits in open plains exposed;
Ere thieves were feared, or gardens were inclosed.
At length uneasy Justice upwards flew,
And both the sisters to the stars withdrew;[108]
From that old æra whoring did begin,
So venerably ancient is the sin.
Adulterers next invade the nuptial state,
And marriage-beds creaked with a foreign weight;
All other ills did iron times adorn,
But whores and silver in one age were born.
Yet thou, they say, for marriage dost provide;
Is this an age to buckle with a bride?
They say thy hair the curling art is taught,
The wedding-ring perhaps already bought;
A sober man like thee to change his life!
What fury would possess thee with a wife?
Art thou of every other death bereft,
No knife, no ratsbane, no kind halter left?
(For every noose compared to her's is cheap. )
Is there no city-bridge from whence to leap?
Would'st thou become her drudge, who dost enjoy
A better sort of bedfellow, thy boy?
He keeps thee not awake with nightly brawls,
Nor, with a begged reward, thy pleasure palls;
Nor, with insatiate heavings, calls for more,
When all thy spirits were drained out before.
But still Ursidius courts the marriage-bait,
Longs for a son to settle his estate,
And takes no gifts, though every gaping heir
Would gladly grease the rich old bachelor.
What revolution can appear so strange,
As such a lecher such a life to change?
A rank, notorious whoremaster, to choose
To thrust his neck into the marriage-noose?
He who so often, in a dreadful fright,
Had, in a coffer, 'scaped the jealous cuckold's sight;
That he, to wedlock dotingly betrayed,
Should hope, in this lewd town, to find a maid! --
The man's grown mad! to ease his frantic pain,
Run for the surgeon, breathe the middle vein;
But let a heifer, with gilt horns, be led
To Juno, regent of the marriage-bed;
And let him every deity adore, }
If his new bride prove not an arrant whore, }
In head, and tail, and every other pore. }
On Ceres' feast,[109] restrained from their delight,
Few matrons there, but curse the tedious night;
Few whom their fathers dare salute, such lust
Their kisses have, and come with such a gust.
With ivy now adorn thy doors, and wed;
Such is thy bride, and such thy genial bed.
Think'st thou one man is for one woman meant?
She sooner with one eye would be content.
And yet, 'tis noised, a maid did once appear
In some small village, though fame says not where.
'Tis possible; but sure no man she found;
'Twas desart all about her father's ground.
And yet some lustful God might there make bold;
Are Jove and Mars grown impotent and old?
Many a fair nymph has in a cave been spread,
And much good love without a feather-bed.
Whither would'st thou, to chuse a wife, resort,
The park, the mall, the playhouse, or the court?
Which way soever thy adventures fall,
Secure alike of chastity in all.
One sees a dancing-master capering high,
And raves, and pisses, with pure extacy;
Another does with all his motions move,
And gapes, and grins, as in the feat of love;
A third is charmed with the new opera notes,
Admires the song, but on the singer dotes.
The country lady in the box appears, }
Softly she warbles over all she hears, }
And sucks in passion both at eyes and ears. }
The rest (when now the long vacation's come,
The noisy hall and theatres grown dumb)
Their memories to refresh, and cheer their hearts,
In borrowed breeches, act the players' parts.
The poor, that scarce have wherewithal to eat,
Will pinch, to make the singing-boy a treat;
The rich, to buy him, will refuse no price,
And stretch his quail-pipe, till they crack his voice.
Tragedians, acting love, for lust are sought,
Though but the parrots of a poet's thought.
The pleading lawyer, though for counsel used,
In chamber-practice often is refused.
Still thou wilt have a wife, and father heirs,
The product of concurring theatres.
Perhaps a fencer did thy brows adorn,
And a young swordsman to thy lands is born.
Thus Hippia loathed her old patrician lord,
And left him for a brother of the sword.
To wondering Pharos[110] with her love she fled,
To show one monster more than Afric bred;
Forgetting house and husband left behind, }
Even children too, she sails before the wind; }
False to them all, but constant to her kind. }
But, stranger yet, and harder to conceive,
She could the playhouse and the players leave.
Born of rich parentage, and nicely bred,
She lodged on down, and in a damask bed;
Yet daring now the dangers of the deep,
On a hard mattress is content to sleep.
Ere this, 'tis true, she did her fame expose;
But that great ladies with great ease can lose.
The tender nymph could the rude ocean bear,
So much her lust was stronger than her fear.
But had some honest cause her passage prest,
The smallest hardship had disturbed her breast.
Each inconvenience makes their virtue cold;
But womankind in ills is ever bold.
Were she to follow her own lord to sea,
What doubts and scruples would she raise to stay?
Her stomach sick, and her head giddy grows,
The tar and pitch are nauseous to her nose;
But in love's voyage nothing can offend,
Women are never sea-sick with a friend.
Amidst the crew she walks upon the board, }
She eats, she drinks, she handles every cord; }
And if she spews, 'tis thinking of her lord. }
Now ask, for whom her friends and fame she lost?
What youth, what beauty, could the adulterer boast?
What was the face, for which she could sustain
To be called mistress to so base a man?
The gallant of his days had known the best; }
Deep scars were seen indented on his breast, }
And all his battered limbs required their needful rest; }
A promontory wen, with grisly grace,
Stood high upon the handle of his face:
His blear-eyes ran in gutters to his chin;
His beard was stubble, and his cheeks were thin.
But 'twas his fencing did her fancy move;
'Tis arms, and blood, and cruelty, they love.
But should he quit his trade, and sheath his sword,
Her lover would begin to be her lord.
This was a private crime; but you shall hear
What fruits the sacred brows of monarchs bear:[111]
The good old sluggard but began to snore,
When, from his side, up rose the imperial whore;
She, who preferred the pleasures of the night
To pomps, that are but impotent delight,
Strode from the palace, with an eager pace,
To cope with a more masculine embrace.
Muffled she marched, like Juno in a cloud,
Of all her train but one poor wench allowed;
One whom in secret-service she could trust,
The rival and companion of her lust.
To the known brothel-house she takes her way, }
And for a nasty room gives double pay; }
That room in which the rankest harlot lay. }
Prepared for fight, expectingly she lies,
With heaving breasts, and with desiring eyes.
Still as one drops, another takes his place,
And, baffled, still succeeds to like disgrace.
At length, when friendly darkness is expired,
And every strumpet from her cell retired,
She lags behind and, lingering at the gate,
With a repining sigh submits to fate;
All filth without, and all a fire within,
Tired with the toil, unsated with the sin.
Old Cæsar's bed the modest matron seeks,
The steam of lamps still hanging on her cheeks
In ropy smut; thus foul, and thus bedight,
She brings him back the product of the night.
Now, should I sing what poisons they provide,
With all their trumpery of charms beside,
And all their arts of death,--it would be known,
Lust is the smallest sin the sex can own.
Cæsinia still, they say, is guiltless found }
Of every vice, by her own lord renowned; }
And well she may, she brought ten thousand pound. }
She brought him wherewithal to be called chaste;
His tongue is tied in golden fetters fast:
He sighs, adores, and courts her every hour;
Who would not do as much for such a dower?
She writes love-letters to the youth in grace,
Nay, tips the wink before the cuckold's face;
And might do more, her portion makes it good;
Wealth has the privilege of widowhood. [112]
These truths with his example you disprove,
Who with his wife is monstrously in love:
But know him better; for I heard him swear,
'Tis not that she's his wife, but that she's fair.
Let her but have three wrinkles in her face,
Let her eyes lessen, and her skin unbrace,
Soon you will hear the saucy steward say,--
Pack up with all your trinkets, and away;
You grow offensive both at bed and board;
Your betters must be had to please my lord.
Meantime she's absolute upon the throne,
And, knowing time is precious, loses none.
She must have flocks of sheep, with wool more fine
Than silk, and vineyards of the noblest wine;
Whole droves of pages for her train she craves,
And sweeps the prisons for attending slaves.
In short, whatever in her eyes can come,
Or others have abroad, she wants at home.
When winter shuts the seas, and fleecy snows
Make houses white, she to the merchant goes;
Rich crystals of the rock she takes up there,
Huge agate vases, and old china ware;
Then Berenice's ring[113] her finger proves,
More precious made by her incestuous loves,
And infamously dear; a brother's bribe,
Even God's anointed, and of Judah's tribe;
Where barefoot they approach the sacred shrine,
And think it only sin to feed on swine.
But is none worthy to be made a wife }
In all this town? Suppose her free from strife, }
Rich, fair, and fruitful, of unblemished life; }
Chaste as the Sabines, whose prevailing charms,
Dismissed their husbands' and their brothers' arms;
Grant her, besides, of noble blood, that ran
In ancient veins, ere heraldry began;
Suppose all these, and take a poet's word,
A black swan is not half so rare a bird.
A wife, so hung with virtues, such a freight,
What mortal shoulders could support the weight!
Some country girl, scarce to a curtsey bred,
Would I much rather than Cornelia[114] wed;
If supercilious, haughty, proud, and vain,
She brought her father's triumphs in her train.
Away with all your Carthaginian state; }
Let vanquished Hannibal without doors wait, }
Too burly, and too big, to pass my narrow gate. }
O Pæan! cries Amphion,[115] bend thy bow }
Against my wife, and let my children go! -- }
But sullen Pæan shoots at sons and mothers too. }
His Niobe and all his boys he lost;
Even her, who did her numerous offspring boast,
As fair and fruitful as the sow that carried
The thirty pigs, at one large litter farrowed. [116]
What beauty, or what chastity, can bear
So great a price, if, stately and severe,
She still insults, and you must still adore?
Grant that the honey's much, the gall is more.
Upbraided with the virtues she displays,
Seven hours in twelve you loath the wife you praise.
Some faults, though small, intolerable grow;
For what so nauseous and affected too,
As those that think they due perfection want,
Who have not learnt to lisp the Grecian cant? [117]
In Greece, their whole accomplishments they seek:
Their fashion, breeding, language, must be Greek;
But, raw in all that does to Rome belong,
They scorn to cultivate their mother-tongue.
In Greek they flatter, all their fears they speak;
Tell all their secrets; nay, they scold in Greek:
Even in the feat of love, they use that tongue.
Such affectations may become the young;
But thou, old hag, of three score years and three,
Is showing of thy parts in Greek for thee?
#Zôê kai psychê! # All those tender words
The momentary trembling bliss affords;
The kind soft murmurs of the private sheets
Are bawdy, while thou speak'st in public streets.
Those words have fingers; and their force is such,
They raise the dead, and mount him with a touch.
But all provocatives from thee are vain;
No blandishment the slackened nerve can strain.
If then thy lawful spouse thou canst not love,
What reason should thy mind to marriage move?
Why all the charges of the nuptial feast,
Wine and deserts, and sweet-meats to digest?
The endowing gold that buys the dear delight,
Given for thy first and only happy night?
If thou art thus uxoriously inclined,
To bear thy bondage with a willing mind,
Prepare thy neck, and put it in the yoke;
But for no mercy from thy woman look.
For though, perhaps, she loves with equal fires,
To absolute dominion she aspires,
Joys in the spoils, and triumphs o'er thy purse;
The better husband makes the wife the worse.
Nothing is thine to give, or sell, or buy, }
All offices of ancient friendship die, }
Nor hast thou leave to make a legacy. [118] }
By thy imperious wife thou art bereft
A privilege, to pimps and panders left;
Thy testament's her will; where she prefers }
Her ruffians, drudges, and adulterers, }
Adopting all thy rivals for thy heirs. }
Go drag that slave to death! --Your reason? why
Should the poor innocent be doomed to die?
What proofs? For, when man's life is in debate,
The judge can ne'er too long deliberate. --
Call'st thou that slave a man? the wife replies;
Proved, or unproved, the crime, the villain dies.
I have the sovereign power to save, or kill,
And give no other reason but my will. --
Thus the she-tyrant reigns, till, pleased with change,
Her wild affections to new empires range;
Another subject-husband she desires;
Divorced from him, she to the first retires,
While the last wedding-feast is scarcely o'er,
And garlands hang yet green upon the door.
So still the reckoning rises; and appears
In total sum, eight husbands in five years.
The title for a tomb-stone might be fit,
But that it would too commonly be writ.
Her mother living, hope no quiet day; }
She sharpens her, instructs her how to flay }
Her husband bare, and then divides the prey. }
She takes love-letters, with a crafty smile,
And, in her daughter's answer, mends the style.
In vain the husband sets his watchful spies;
She cheats their cunning, or she bribes their eyes.
The doctor's called; the daughter, taught the trick,
Pretends to faint, and in full health is sick.
The panting stallion, at the closet-door,
Hears the consult, and wishes it were o'er.
Canst thou, in reason, hope, a bawd so known,
Should teach her other manners than her own?
Her interest is in all the advice she gives;
'Tis on the daughter's rents the mother lives.
No cause is tried at the litigious bar,
But women plaintiffs or defendants are;
They form the process, all the briefs they write, }
The topics furnish, and the pleas indict, }
And teach the toothless lawyer how to bite. }
They turn viragos too; the wrestler's toil
They try, and smear the naked limbs with oil;
Against the post their wicker shields they crush,
Flourish the sword, and at the flastron push.
Of every exercise the mannish crew
Fulfils the parts, and oft excels us too;
Prepared not only in feigned fights to engage,
But rout the gladiators on the stage.
What sense of shame in such a breast can lie,
Inured to arms, and her own sex to fly?
Yet to be wholly man she would disclaim; }
To quit her tenfold pleasure at the game, }
For frothy praises and an empty name. }
Oh what a decent sight 'tis to behold
All thy wife's magazine by auction sold!
The belt, the crested plume, the several suits
Of armour, and the Spanish leather boots!
Yet these are they, that cannot bear the heat
Of figured silks, and under sarcenet sweat.
Behold the strutting Amazonian whore,
She stands in guard with her right foot before;
Her coats tucked up, and all her motions just,
She stamps, and then cries,--Hah! at every thrust;
But laugh to see her, tired with many a bout,
Call for the pot, and like a man piss out.
The ghosts of ancient Romans, should they rise,
Would grin to see their daughters play a prize.
Besides, what endless brawls by wives are bred?
The curtain-lecture makes a mournful bed.
Then, when she has thee sure within the sheets,
Her cry begins, and the whole day repeats.
Conscious of crimes herself, she teazes first;
Thy servants are accused; thy whore is curst;
She acts the jealous, and at will she cries;
For womens' tears are but the sweat of eyes.
