No. 2
[Latin original, ed. E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2nd
edn., 1877]
Beatus ille, qui procul negotiis,
Ut prisca gens mortalium,
Paterna rura bobus exercet suis,
Solutus omni fenore,
Neque excitatur classico miles truci,
Neque horret iratum mare,
Forumque vitat et superba civium
Potentiorum limina.
Ergo aut adulta vitium propagine
Altas maritat populos,
Aut in reducta valle mugientium
Prospectat errantes greges,
Inutilesque falce ramos amputans
Feliciores inserit,
Aut pressa puris mella condit amphoris,
Aut tondet infirmas oves;
Vel cum decorum mitibus pomis caput
Auctumnus agris extulit,
Ut gaudet insitiva decerpens pira,
Certantem et uvam purpurae,
Qua muneretur te, Priape, et te, pater
Silvane, tutor finium!
Libet iacere modo sub antiqua ilice,
Modo in tenaci gramine.
Labuntur altls interim rivis aquae,
Queruntur in silvis aves,
Fontesque lymphis obstrepunt
manantibus,
Somnos quod invitet leves.
At cum tonantis annus hibernus lovis
Imbres nivesque comparat,
Aut trudit acres hinc et hinc multa
cane
Apros in obstantes plagas,
Aut amite levi rara tendit retia,
Turdis edacibus dolos,
Pavidumque leporem et advenam laqueo
gruem
lucunda captat praemia.
Quis non malarum, quas amor curas
habet,
Haec inter obliviscitur?
Quodsi pudica mulier in partem iuvet
Domum atque dulces liberos,
Sabina qualis aut perusta solibus
Pernicis uxor Apuli,
Sacrum vetustis exstruat lignis focum
Lassi sub adventum viri,
Claudensque textis cratibus laetum
pecus
Distenta siccet ubera,
Et horna dulci vina promens dolio
Dapes inemptas apparet:
Non me Lucrina iuverint conchylia
Magisve rhombus aut scari,
Si quos Eois intonata fluctibus
Hiems ad hoc vertat mare;
Non Afra avis descendat in ventrem
meum,
Non attagen lonicus
lucundior, quam lecta de pinguissimis
Oliva ramis arborum
Aut herba lapathi prata amantis et
gravi
Malvae salubres corpori,
Vel agna festis caesa Terminalibus
Vel haedus ereptus lupo.
Has inter epulas ut iuvat pastas oves
Videre properantes domum,
Videre fessos vomerem inversum boves
Collo trahentes languido,
Positosque vernas, ditis examen domus,
Circum renidentes Lares!
Haec ubi locutus fenerator Alfius,
lam iam futurus rusticus,
Omnem redegit Idibus pecuniam,
Quaerit Kalendis ponere.
[John Marshall, 1908, Everyman
Library, 1911]
IN
PRAISE OF COUNTRY LIFE
“Happy the man, who far from town’s
affairs,
The life of old-world mortals shares;
With his own oxen tills his forbears’
fields,
Nor thinks of usury and its yields.
Nor soldier he, by the fierce bugle
called,
Nor sailor, at each storm appalled;
He shuns the forum, and the haughty
gate
Of nobles stronger than the State.
His business is round poplars tall to
twine
The ripe young layers of the vine;
Or in some quiet valley to survey
His lowing heifers as they stray.
Now with his knife the worthless shoots
he lops,
Grafting instead for richer crops;
Draws the new honey, in pure jars to
keep,
Or shears the timid staggering sheep.
When Autumn, with his mellow fruitage
gay,
Doth o’er the fields his head display,
What joy it is the grafted pears to
try,
And grapes which with sea-purple vie;
Fit gift, Priapus, choosing for thy
hand,
Or Silvan, thine, guard of his land!
What joy, beneath some holm-oak old
and grey
Or on thick turf, one’s limbs to lay;
While streams past toppling banks roll
down their flood,
And the birds croon in every wood,
And fountains murmur with their
gushing streams
Sounds that shall sooth to sleep and
dreams.
Then when the thunderous winter comes
again,
Rainstorms and snowdrifts in its
train,
This side and that a many hounds he’ll
set,
Into the toils tierce boars to fret;
Or on smooth fork his fine-wrought
network sling,
To clip the greedy thrush-bird’s wing.
Or trap the travelled crane or timid
hare,
Prizes of joy beyond compare.
Who amid sports like these forgets not
quite
Love’s ill desires and pestering
plight?
Nay if a modest wife be there to cheer
The home, and tend the children dear,
As stout Apulia’s sunburnt women do,
Or Sabines, and at evening strew
The sacred hearth with logs well-aged,
to burn
Against her jaded man’s return;
Next her fed beasts in hurdle-fence
restrain,
And their distended udders drain;
Last, from sweet cask the year’s fresh
wine-draught take,
And an unbought regalement make,
then not Lucrine oysters so would
please,
Or scaur, or turbot, that o'er seas
From eastern parts some thunderous
storm may sweep
Into our waters from the deep!
Not guinea-fowl into my paunch would
fare,
No nor Ionian partridge rare,
More pleasingly, than fruit myself had
pulled,
From olives’ richest branches culled,
Or meadow-haunting sorrel-leaves,
combined
With mallows, to ill stomachs kind;
Or haply lamb, slain at the
Boundary-Feast,
Or kid, from a wolf's jaws released.
Mid junketings like these how good to
spy
The fed sheep as they homeward hie,
To see the wearied beeves with
shoulders slack
Trundle the upturned ploughshare back;
And seated hinds, the mansion’s
humming swarm,
Crowd where the hearth-gods’ smiles
show warm!”
Postscript
Alfius the usurer, when thus he swore
Farmer to be for ever more,
At the mid-month his last transaction
ending,
By next new moon is keen
for lending.
[E. C. Bennett, 1912, Loeb Classical
Library]
Country Joys
“Happy the man who, far away from
business cares, like the pristine race of mortals, works his ancestral acres
with his steers, from all money lending free; who is not, as a soldier, roused
by the wild clarion, nor dreads the angry sea; he avoids the Forum and proud
thresholds of more powerful citizens; and so he either weds his lofty
poplar-trees to well-grown vines, or in secluded dale looks out upon the rang-
ing herds of lowing cattle, and, cutting off useless branches with the
pruning-knife, engrafts more fruitful ones, or stores away pressed honey in
clean jars, or shears the helpless sheep. Or when Autumnn the fields has reared
his head crowned with ripened fruits, how he delights to pluck the grafted pears,
and grapes that with the purple vie, with which to honour thee, Priapus, and
thee. Father Silvanus, guardian of
boundaries.
‘Tis pleasant, now to lie beneath some
ancient ilex-tree, now on the matted turf. Meanwhile the rills glide between their
high banks; birds warble in the woods; the fountains plash with their flowing waters,
a sound to invite soft slumbers. But when the wintry season of thundering Jove
brings rains and snow, with his pack of hounds one either drives fierce Soars
from here and there into the waiting toils, or on polished pole stretches
wide-meshed nets, a snare for greedy thrushes, and catches with the noose the
timid hare and the crane that comes from far – sweet prizes. Amid such joys,
who does not forget the wretched cares that passion brings?
But if a modest wife shall do her part
in tending home and children dear, like to some Sabine woman or the well-tanned
mate of sturdy Apulian, piling high the sacred hearth with seasoned firewood against
the coming of her weary husband, penning the frisking flock in wattled fold,
draining their swelling udders, and, drawing forth this year’s sweet vintage
from the jar, prepare an unbought meal, – then not Lucrine oysters would please
me more, nor scar, nor turbot, should winter, thundering on tlie eastern waves,
turn them to our coasts; not Afric fowl nor Ionian pheasant would make for me a
repast more savoury than olives gathered from the richest branches of the
trees, or the plant of the meadow-loving sorrel, and mallows wholesome to the
ailing body, or than a lamb slain at the feast of Terminus, or a kid rescued
from the wolf. Amid such feasts, what joy to see the sheep hurrying homeward
from pasture, to see the wearied oxen dragging along the upturned ploughshare
on their tired necks, and the home-bred slaves, troop of a wealthy house,
ranged around the gleaming Lares!
When the usurer Alfius had uttered
this, on the very point of beginning the farmer’s life, he called in all his
funds upon the Ides – and on the Kalends seeks to put them out again!
[W. G. Shepherd, 1983, Penguin
Classics]
‘Happy he who far from
business dealing
(like uncorrupted folk of
yore)
and free from interest
owing,
works with his oxen his
family land:
no soldier he aroused by
fierce alarums;
nor does he dread the sea
enchaf’d;
he avoids the haughty
portals of
great men, and likewise the
Forum;
he weds his lofty poplar
trees
to nubile shoots of vine;
in some secluded dale
reviews
his lowing, wandering
herds;
he prunes back barren
shoots
with his hook and grafts on
fruitful;
he stores pressed honey in
clean jars;
he shears the harmless
sheep;
when Autumn life in the
fields his head
fittingly decked with
ripened fruit,
he delights to pluck the
grafted pears
and grapes that vie with
the purple,
with which to render thanks
to you,
Priapus, and you, father
Silvanus,
the guardian of bound’ries.
Pleasant now to recline
beneath a tree,
and now on some luxuriant
sward
as the waters glide by
lofty banks,
birds quire in the woods
and purling brooklets
babble,
lulling to gentle slumber.
But when the winter of
thundering Jove
brings in rain and snow,
one either harries with
hounds
hither and thither fierce
boars
into the intercipient
toils,
or stretches loose nets on
smooth poles
to deceive the eager
thrushes,
and takes with a noose the
pleasant prize
of coward hare and migrant
crane.
Who will recall to
remembrance
amid such things the woeful
pangs of love?
But if a modest helpmeet
plays her part
with home and sweet
children
(a Sabine dame or
sun-tanned wife
of some Apulian stalwart),
and piles the blessèd
hearth with seasoned faggots
against the coming of her
weary spouse,
and pens the frisking flock
with wattle,
and drains their swelling
udders,
and pours the sweet new
vintage from its jar,
and prepares a repast of
home-produce;
then Lucrine oysters could
not rejoice
me more, nor turbot, nor
scar,
when Winter booming on waves
of Dawn
diverts them to our
fishing-grounds;
neither African fowl nor
Ionian pheasant
descends more pleasantly
into my belly
than olives picked out from
the richest boughs,
or sorrel that thrives in
the fields,
or mallows good for bodily
ailments,
of a lamb slaughtered at
the feast of Terminus,
or a kidling saved from the
wolf.
Amid such feasts it is a
joy to see
the sheep hasting home from
pasture,
the wearied oxen dragging
along
with languid necks the
upturned ploughshares,
the home-bred slaves (the
swarm of a thriving house)
about the glittering Lares...’
– Thus Alfius, a moneylender,
on the point of turning farmer:
he called it all his capital
on the Ides, and on the Kalends
he’s busily loaning it out again.
[David West, 1997, Oxford World’s
Classics]
‘Fortunate
the man who, free from cares,
like
men of old still works
his
father’s fields with his own oxen,
encumbered
by no debt.
No
soldier he, aroused by the bugle’s blare,
nor
does he fear the angry sea.
The
Forum he avoids and lofty doors
of
powerful citizens.
And
so, to daughters of the vine when they are come
of
age, he weds tall poplars;
in
sheltered valley sees his wandering herds
of lowing cattle;
or
with his sickle prunes the useless growth
and grafts more fruitful shoots;
or
stores pressed honey in clean jars;
or shears his helpless sheep.
When
Autumn raises in the fields its head
with fruit so richly crowned,
with
what delight he plucks the pears he grafted
and grapes that challenge any purple dye,
to
give you, Priapus, and Silvanus too,
the father god, and guardian of his bounds.
He
loves to lie beneath an ancient ilex tree,
or deep in grass too lush to leave,
as
all the while the water glides between high banks,
and birds are moaning in the woods,
and
leaves speak out against the flowing stream,
and every sound invites to easy sleep.
But
when the thunder of Jove’s winter season
musters the rains and shows,
with
all his dogs on every side he drives
wild boar into his ring of nets,
or
stretches wide-meshed toils on twigs he’s smoothed
to trap the greedy thrushes,
and
hunts the timid hare and crane migrating
to his snare – delicious prey.
Amid
these pleasures who would not forget
the miseries brought on by love?
But
if chaste wife were there to play her part
and make the home and children sweet,
like
Sabine women, or like sun-scorched wife
of busy farmer in Apulia,
she’d
heap the sacred hearth with seasoned logs
to wait her weary husband’s coming,
shutting
the lusty flock in wattle pens
and milking swollen udders,
decanting
this year’s wine from its sweet cask,
and setting out a meal unbought.
Then
oysters from the Lucrine Lake would hold no charm
for me, nor turbot, nor the parrot-wrasse,
if
storms of thunder rumbling in the East should drive
them into our Italian sea.
No
guinea fowl from Africa nor heathcock from Ionia
would then go down my throat
so
tastily as the choice olives picked
from richest branches of my trees,
or
sorrel leaf that loves our meadowlands,
or mallows so digestible for invalids,
or
lamb killed on the holy day of Terminus,
or kid snatched from the wolf.
At
such a feast what pleasure it would give to see
the full-fed sheep all hurry home,
to
see the weary oxen drag on sluggish necks
their plough with share upturned,
while
houseborn slaves, the rich hive’s swarm,
stand by the hearth around
its smiling gods.’
When
Alfius, the money lender said all this,
resolved at last, at last, to be a countryman,
he
called in all his money on the Ides –
and on the Kalends now he tries to place it out again.
[Niall Rudd, 2004, rev. 2012, Loeb Classical
Library]
Country joys
Happy the man who, far from business
concerns, works his ancestral acres with his oxen like the men of old, free
from every kind of debt; he is not wakened, like a soldier, by the harsh bray
of the bugle, and has no fear of the angry sea; he avoids both the city centre
and the lofty doorways of powerful citizens. And so he marries the fully grown
layers of the vine to tall poplars, or in a secluded valley he watches his
lowing herd as they wander about; he prunes dead branches with his sickle and
grafts on more fruitful ones, or he squeezes out honey, storing it in clean
jars, or he shears the unresisting sheep; when in the countryside Autumn raises
his head arrayed with ripe fruit, how he enjoys picking the pears he grafted and
the clusters that rival the dyer’s purple, to reward you, Priapus, and you,
Father Silvanus, for watching over his land!
It is a delight to lie under an old
holm oak, or in the clinging grass; meanwhile the streams glide between their
steep banks, birds twitter in the trees, springs burble as their water gushes
forth—sounds that induce a pleasant nap. But in wintertime, when thundering
Jove brings masses of rain and snow, he hunts fierce boars from here and there
with packs of hounds into the nets that are spread in their path, or with
smooth rods he stretches baggy nets to catch greedy thrushes, and with a snare
he takes a timid hare and a migrant crane—choice prizes. When occupied in these
ways, who does not forget the wretched worries that accompany love?
But if a respectable wife played her
part in looking after the home and the dear children (like a Sabine woman or
the sun-tanned wife of an energetic Apulian), piled seasoned wood onto the
sacred hearth to welcome her husband when he came home tired, shut up the
teeming animals in wattle pens, drained their bulging udders, ladled this
year’s wine from a fragrant jar, and served a home-grown supper—then Lucrine
oysters would not give me greater pleasure, nor turbot nor wrasse (if winter,
thundering over the eastern sea, should drive any to these waters); no African
guinea fowl, no Ionian partridge would pass down to my stomach with greater
relish than olives picked from the richest branches of the trees or leaves of
sorrel that loves the meadow, and mallows that ease an overloaded body, or than
a lamb sacrificed at the festival of Terminus or a kid snatched from the jaws
of a wolf. When enjoying such a feast, what a delight it is to see the sheep
hurrying home from pasture, to see the weary oxen dragging the up-turned plough
with their drooping necks, and the homebred slaves (the swarm of a rich house),
ready for their meal with the sparkling household gods in the middle!
After these remarks, the money-lender
Alfius, just on the very point of becoming a countryman, called in all his
money on the Ides, intending to put it out again on the Kalends.
No. 7
[Latin original, ed. E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2nd
edn., 1877]
Quo, quo scelesti ruitis? aut cur
dexteris
Aptantur enses conditi?
Parumne campis atque Neptuno super
Fusum est Latini sanguinis,
Non, ut superbas invidae Karthaginis
Romanus arces ureret,
Intactus aut Britannus ut descenderet
Sacra catenatus via,
Sed ut secundum vota Parthorum sua
Urbs haec periret dextera?
Neque hic lupis mos nec fuit leonibus
Unquam nisi in dispar feris.
Furorne caecus, an rapit vis acrior?
An culpa? Responsum date! –
Tacent et albus ora pallor inficit
Mentesque perculsae stupent.
Sic est: acerba fata Romanos agunt
Scelusque fraternae necis,
Ut immerentis fluxit in terram Remi
Sacer nepotibus cruor.
[John Marshall, 1908, Everyman
Library, 1911]
THE
CURSE OF ROME
Whither, curst rabble, rush ye? Why
now bear
Sword that of late ye
ceased to wear?
Hath not on land, nor less on Neptune’s
bed,
Enough of Roman blood been shed?
Shed, not that envious Carthage's
proud wall
Should, burnt by Roman torches,
Nor that the Britons, still untamed,
should throng
In chains the Sacred Way along.
But shed, the Parthians’ prayers to
satisfy,
That Rome by her own hand might die.
Ev’n among wolves and lions no such
deeds
Are seen. They fight with alien
breeds.
Are ye by madness or blind impulse
driv’n,
Or by ill choice? Be answer giv’n!
They answer naught! But every man goes
pale,
And paralyzed with fear turns tail!
In sooth, ‘tis an old curse drives
Romans thus,
Bred of the deeds of Romulus,
When Remus’ innocent blood gushed to
the ground,
That should to ill long thence
redound.
[E. C. Bennett, 1912, Loeb Classical
Library]
A Threatened Renewal off Civil Strife
Whither, whither are ye rushing to
ruin in your wicked frenzy? Or why are your hands grasping the swords that have
once been sheathed? Has too little Roman blood been shed on field and flood –
not that the Roman might burn the proud towers of jealous Carthage, or that the
Briton, as yet unscathed, might descend the Sacred Way in fetters, but that, in
fulfilment of the Parthians’ prayers, this city might perish by its own right
hand? Such habit ne’er belonged to wolves or lions, whose fierceness is turned
only against beasts of other kinds. Does some blind frenzy drive us on, or some
stronger power, or guilt? Give answer! – They speak not; a ghastly pallor
o’erspreads their faces; and dazed are their shattered senses. ’Tis so; a
bitter fate pursues the Romans, and the crime of a brother’s murder, ever since
blameless Remus’ blood was spilt upon the ground, to be a curse upon posterity.
[W. G. Shepherd, 1983, Penguin
Classics]
Into what, what, do you wickedly
plunge?
What do your hands draw swords from
scabbards?
Perhaps too little Latin blood has
been spilled
on battlefields or Neptune’s realm?
And not that Romans might burn
the haughty towers of emulous
Carthage;
not that the scatheless Briton might
trudge
in chains down the Sacred Way;
but that in fulfilment of Parthian
prayers
this City might die by her own right
hand.
Such ‘haviour never ‘longed to lions
or wolves,
ferocious only to alien kinds.
Does blinded frenzy possess us?
Some sharper goad, such as guilt?
Reply!
– Silence. A blenching pallor dyes
their cheeks,
their capsized intellects are numb.
So it goes: a bitter fate pursues
the Romans, and the crime of
fratricide,
since the blood of Remus ran on the
earth,
the bane of his successors.
[David West, 1997, Oxford World’s
Classics]
Why
this mad rush to join a wicked war? Your swords
were sheathed. Why do you draw them now?
Perhaps
too little Latin blood has poured upon the plains
and into Neptune’s sea,
not
so that Rome could burn the lofty citadels
of Carthage, her great enemy,
or
that the Briton, still beyond our reach, should walk
the Sacred Way in chains,
but
so that Rome might fall by Roman hands
and answer all the prayers of Parthia.
This
never was the way of lions or of wolves
to shed the blood of their own kind.
Is
it blind madness, or some deadlier force?
Some ancient guilt? Give answer now.
Silence,
and pallor on the face,
minds numbed with shock.
The
case is made. It is harsh Fate that drives
the Romans, and the crime of fratricide
since
Remus’ blameless lifeblood poured upon the ground –
a curse to generations yet unborn.
[Niall Rudd, 2004, rev. 2012, Loeb
Classical Library]
A threatened renewal of civil strife
Where, where are you rushing to in
this evil madness? Why are you drawing swords that have only just been
sheathed? Has too little Latin blood been shed on land and sea – not to enable
the Roman to burn the arrogant stronghold of jealous Carthage, or to make the
Briton, so long beyond our reach, walk down the Sacred Way in chains, but to
ensure that in answer to the Parthians’ prayers this city shall perish by its
own hand? This is not the way of wolves or lions; they are never ferocious
except to other species. Is it blind frenzy that hurries you along, or some
stronger force, or is it guilt? Answer my question!… They are silent; a ghastly
pallor spreads over their faces, and their minds are shocked and confused.
That’s it: a cruel fate and the crime of a brother’s murder have driven the
Romans on, ever since the innocent Remus’ blood was spilt on the ground, blood
that has brought a curse on his descendants.
No. 8
[Latin original, ed. E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2nd
edn., 1877]
Rogare longo putidam te seculo,
Vires quid enervet meas?
Cum sit tibi dens ater et rugis vetus
Frontem senectus exaret,
Hietque turpis inter aridas nates
Podex velut crudae bovis.
Sed incitat me pectus et mammae
putres,
Equina quales ubera,
Venterque mollis et femur tumentibus
Exile suris additum!
Esto beata, funus atque imagines
Ducant triumphales tuum,
Nec sit marita, quae rotundioribus
Onusta bacis ambulet.
Quid, quod libelli Stoici inter
sericos
lacere pulvillos amant?
Illiterati num minus nervi rigent,
Minusve languet fascinum?
Quod ut superbo provoces ab inguine,
Ore allaborandum est tibi.
[John Marshall, 1908, Everyman
Library, 1911]
[Omitted
in this translation!]
[E. C. Bennett, 1912, Loeb Classical
Library]
[Omitted
in this translation!]
[W. G. Shepherd, 1983, Penguin
Classics]
That you, rotten, should ask what it
is
that emasculates me, when you’ve
just one black tooth and decrepit age
ploughs up your forehead with
wrinkles,
when a diarrhoeic cow’s hole gapes
between your dehydrated buttocks!
What rouses me is your putrid bosom
your breasts like the teats of a mare,
the flaccid belly and skinny thighs
that top your grossly swollen shanks.
Be bless’d, and may triumphant lovers’
likenesses attend your corpse.
May no wife perlustrate laden
with fatter, rounder pearls than
yours.
What though Stoic pamphlets like
to lie between silken pillows?
Illiterate sinews stiffen,
and hamptons droop, no less for that.
(Though if you hope to rouse up mine,
your mouth is face with no mean task.)
[David West, 1997, Oxford World’s
Classics]
You dare to ask me, you decrepit,
stinking slut,
what makes me impotent?
And you with blackened teeth, and so
advanced
in age that wrinkles plough your
forehead,
your raw and filthy arsehole gaping
like a cow’s
between your wizened buttocks.
It’s your slack breasts that rouse me
(I have seen
much better udders on a mare)
your flabby paunch and scrawny thighs,
stuck on your swollen ankles.
May you be blest with wealth! May
effigies
of triumphators march you to the
grave,
and may no other wife go on parade
weighed down with fatter pearls!
But why do Stoic tracts so love to lie
on your silk cushions?
They won’t cause big erections or
delay the droop –
you know that penises can’t
read.
If that is what you want from my
fastidious groin,
your mouth has got some
work to do.
[Niall Rudd, 2004, rev. 2012, Loeb
Classical Library]
An over-demanding lady
To think that you, who have rotted
away with the long passage of time, should ask what unstrings my virility, when
your teeth are black, and extreme decrepitude ploughs furrows on your forehead,
and your disgusting anus gapes between your shrivelled buttocks like that of a
cow with diarrhea! I suppose I am excited by your bosom with its withered
breasts like the udders of a mare, your flabby belly, and your scrawny thighs
perched on top of your swollen ankles! Be as rich as you like. May the masks of
triumphal ancestors escort your cortege! Let no wife be weighed down with
fatter pearls as she walks proudly by! What of the fact that slim Stoic volumes
nestle on your cushions of Chinese silk? Does that make my organ (which can’t
read) any stiffer, or my phallic charm less limp? To call it forth from my
proud crotch you must go to work with your mouth.
No. 9
[Latin original, ed. E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2nd
edn., 1877]
Quando repostum Caecubum ad festas
dapes
Victore laetus Caesare
Tecum sub alta – sic lovi gratum – domo,
Beate Maecenas, bibam
Sonante mixtum tibiis carmen lyra,
Hac Dorium, illis barbarum?
Ut nuper, actus cum freto Neptunius
Dux fugit ustis navibus,
Minatus Urbi vincla, quae detraxerat
Servis amicus perfidis.
Romanus, eheu, – posteri negabitis –
Emancipatus feminae
Fert vallum et arma miles et
spadonibus
Servire rugosis potest,
Interque signa turpe militaria
Sol adspicit conopium.
Ad hunc frementes verterunt bis mille
equos
Galli, canentes Caesarem,
Hostiliumque navium portu latent
Puppes sinistrorsum citae.
lo Triumphe, tu moraris aureos
Currus et intactas boves?
lo Triumphe, nec lugurthino parem
Bello reportasti ducem,
Neque Africanum, cui super Karthaginem
Virtus sepulcrum condidit,
Terra marique victus hostis punico
Lugubre mutavit sagum.
Aut ille centum nobilem Cretam urbibus
Ventis iturus non suis,
Exercitatas aut petit Syrtes Noto,
Aut fertur incerto mari.
Capaciores afifer huc, puer, scyphos
Et Chia vina aut Lesbia:
Vel, quod fluentem nauseam coerceat,
Metire nobis Caecubum:
Curam metumque Caesaris rerum iuvat
Dulci Lyaeo solvere.
[John Marshall, 1908, Everyman
Library, 1911]
THE
VICTORY AT ACTIUM
When shall the Caecuban, for fears
laid by,
Be broached on Caesar’s
victory,
In your high halls, as Jove would
wish, by two,
Heav’n-blest Maecenas, me
and you;
While lyre and flutes with strains
alternate please,
Stern Dorian, that, wild Phrygian,
these?
So drank we, when that self-named “Neptune’s
son”
Sailed off, his warships burnt each
one,
Who’d vowed, the chains which he took,
of his grace,
From rascal slaves, on Rome to place.
Soldiers of Rome, erelong the tale
they’ll scout
Mere chattel tools, now bear about
Arms, stakes, to please a woman; now
must they
Her wrinkled eunuchs’ word obey;
While ‘mid Rome’s standards shall the
sun behold
(Vie sight) mosquito nets unrolled!
Lo! in their wrath, to us deserting
ride
Two thousand Gauls, who Caesar’s side
Acclaim; while the foe’s ships sheer
swift away,
And refuge find in distant bay!
Ho! Triumph God, why check thy golden
car,
And kine which never yoke did mar?
Ho! Triumph God, not conqueror so
great
Didst bring, after Jugurtha’s fate;
Not Africanus, though, for Carthage
razed,
Fame on a tomb his valour praised.
Conquered by sea and land, a cloak of
gloom
The foe hath ta’en, in scarlet’s room.
Haply to hundred-citied Crete he’ll
fare,
Though ill the winds that blow him
there;
Or to the Syrtes vexed by southern
gale,
Or overseas haphazard sail.
Get larger cups, boy, ready to our
hand,
Of Chian or of Lesbian brand!
Or better, some dry Caecuban go mix;
Our stomachs’ waverings ‘twill fix.
With wines’ delights of some sort we
must drown
The fears we’ve felt for Caesar’s
crown.
[E. C. Bennett, 1912, Loeb Classical
Library]
After Actium
When, happy Maecenas, within thy lofty
palace, such is Jove’s pleasure,– shall I with thee, in joy at Caesar’s triumph,
drink the Caecuban stored away for festal banquets, while flute and lyre make
music with their mingled melody of Phrygian and Dorian strains? Just as lately,
when the Neptunian leader, his ships consumed, was driven from the sea in flight,
though he had threatened the City with the shackles he had taken from faithless
slaves, his friends! The Roman, alas! (ye, O men of after times, will deny the
charge) – the Roman bears stakes and weapons at a woman’s behest, and, a
soldier, can bring himself to become the minion of withered eunuchs, while amid
the soldiers’ standards the sun shines on the shameful Egyptian pavilion. At sight
of this, twice a thousand Gauls, chanting the name of Caesar, turned away their
snorting steeds; and the ships of the foe, when summoned to the left, lay
hidden in the harbour! lo, Triumphe! Dost thou keep back the golden cars and
the unsullied kine? lo, Triumphe! Neither in Jugurtha’s war didst thou bring
back so glorious a captain; nor was Africanus such, – he whose valour reared
for him a shrine o’er Carthage. Vanquished on sea and land, the foe has changed
the scarlet cape for sable, and against baffling winds is either making for
Crete famed for her hundred cities, or is seeking the Syrtes by Notus tossed,
or is borne upon uncertain seas. Bring hither, lad, more generous bowls, and Chian
wine or Lesbian, or pour out for us Caecuban, to check our rising qualms. ‘Tis
sweet to banish anxious fear for Caesar’s fortunes with Bacchus’ mellow gift.
[W. G. Shepherd, 1983, Penguin
Classics]
My bless’d Maecenas, when shall you
and I,
in your lofty palace, rejoicing in
Caesar’s triumph, as is grateful to
Jove,
drink the Caecuban put up for special
feasts,
while the lyre propounds the Dorian
mode
in consort with exotic pipes? – As
when,
of late, Neptune’s admiral Pompey,
his ships all burned, was driven from
the sea
and fled, though he had threatened the
City
with fetters struck off from the
treacherous slaves
his friends. – Alas when Romans,
bought and sold
(posterity will deny it), bear stakes
and weapons for a woman; when soldiers
can bring themselves to serve under
withered
eunuchs; and among the Army’s
standards
the sunshine bright as a shameful pavilion
–
at which two thousand Gauls, chanting
the name
of Caesar, swerved aside their snorting
mounts;
and rebel warships signalled to the
left
lay hid in harbour. Hail Triumph! You’d
not
keep back the victor’s chariots of
gold,
the unyoked kine? Hail Triumph! You
brought us
no such general back from Jugurtha’s
war –
not Africanus, whose manhood built his
tomb
upon Carthage. Defeated on land and
sea,
the foe has changed his crimson cloak for
mourning;
and is either sailing mazed among
cross winds
to Crete and her hundred storied
cities;
or makes for the Syrtes the south wind
keeps
in exercise; or is borne away upon
uncharted seas. Boy! bring larger goblets
and Chian or Lesbian wine, or measure
out
Caecuban to settle our seasick
stomachs:
it is sweet to disperse with Bacchus’
aid
our anxious concern for Caesar’s
affairs.
[David West, 1997, Oxford World’s
Classics]
When shall I celebrate the
great Caesar’s victory and drink
the Caecuban laid down for
sacred feasts
with you, heaven-blest
Maecenas, in the lofty home
the gods have given you,
to mingled music of the
lyre and pipe,
Dorian the one, the other
barbarous?
Just so not long ago we
drank when Neptune’s admiral
was routed and his galleys
fired,
although he once had
threatened Rome with chains
struck off his friends, our
treacherous slaves.
Now Romans are a woman’s
slaves – O hear you this
you generations yet to come
–
carrying arms and stakes
for her, and at the beck and call
of wrinkled eunuchs,
and there the sun among our
eagle sees
– the shame of it –
mosquito nets!
But now two thousand Galli,
hailing Caesar, have wheeled
their snorting mounts to
join with us,
and the opposing ships have
pulled to port.
and lie there cowering in
the Ambracian Gulf.
Io Triumphe! Bring your
chariots of gold
and oxen never yoked.
Io Triumphe! From Jugurtha’s
war you did not bring
a greater warrior home to
Rome,
Not even Africanus equalled
him, whose valour made
a sepulchre where Carthage
once had stood.
Conquered by land and sea,
the foe soon changed
his purple cloak for
mourning black.
Either he flies to glorious
hundred-citied Crete
carried by winds he did not
choose,
or steers towards the
Syrtes where the southerlies hold sway,
or sails the sea he knows
not where.
Bring more capacious
goblets, boy,
and Chian wine and Lesbian,
or dose us with the Caecuban
– seasickness much be
checked.
What joy to end anxiety and
fear
for Caesar’s fate with
sweet Lyaeus!
[Niall Rudd, 2004, rev. 2012, Loeb
Classical Library]
After Actium
When, happy Maecenas, shall I drink
with you, in joy at Caesar’s victory, in your high house (for that’s what the
god intends) the Caecuban that has been laid by for a banquet of celebration,
while the lyre sounds forth its Dorian music mingled with the foreign notes of
the pipe? That’s what we did, not long ago, when the ships of Neptune’s general
were burnt, and he fled, driven from the sea – the man who had threatened to
fasten on the capital the chains he had removed from the treasonous slaves whom
he had befriended.
The shame of it! A Roman enslaved to a
woman (you future generations will refuse to believe it) carries a stake and
weapons, and in spite of being a soldier can bear to serve a lot of shrivelled
eunuchs, while the sun gazes down on the degenerate mosquito net among the
army’s standards. But two thousand Galatians have turned their snorting horses
in our direction, chanting Caesar’s name; and the sterns of the enemy’s ships,
after making off at speed to the left, skulk in harbour. Hail, Triumph! Are you
holding back the golden chariots and the heifers that have never known a yoke?
Hail, Triumph! You did not bring back such a general from the Jugurthine War,
nor was Africanus such, whose valour built a tomb over Carthage. Defeated on
land and sea, the enemy has put on a cloak of mourning instead of his scarlet
one. The man may reach Crete, famous for her hundred cities, though the winds
are not in his favour, or he is making for the Syrtes that are buffeted by the
South Wind, or else he is carried along over an uncertain sea. Bring larger
cups, boy, and pour us Chian or Lesbian wine, or rather Caecuban so that it may
check our seasickness. It’s a joy to get rid of our worry and fear for Caesar’s
cause with the sweet Loosener’s help.
No. 12
[Latin original, ed. E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2nd
edn., 1877]
Quid tibi vis, mulier nigris
dignissima barris?
Munera quid mihi quidve tabellas
Mittis nec firmo iuveni neque naris
obesae?
Namque sagacius unus odoror,
Polypus an gravis hirsutis cubet
hircus in alis,
Quam canis acer, ubi lateat sus.
Qui sudor vietis et quam malus undique
membris
Crescit odor, cum pene soluto
Indomitam properat rabiem sedare;
neque illi
lam manet humida creta colorque
Stercore fucatus crocodili, iamque
subando
Tenta cubilia tectaque rumpit!
Vel mea cum saevis agitat fastidia
verbis:
Inachia langues minus ac me;
Inachiam ter nocte potes, mihi semper
ad unum
Mollis opus. Pereat male, quae te
Lesbia quaerenti taurum monstravit
inertem,
Cum mihi Cous adesset Amyntas,
Cuius in indomito constantior inguine
nervus
Quam nova collibus arbor inhaeret.
Muricibus Tyriis iteratae vellera
lanae
Cui properabantur? Tibi nempe,
Ne foret aequales inter conviva, magis
quem
Diligeret mulier sua quam te.
O ego non felix, quam tu fugis, ut
pavet acres
Agna lupos capreaeque leones!
[John Marshall, 1908, Everyman Library,
1911]
[Omitted
in this translation!]
[E. C. Bennett, 1912, Loeb Classical
Library]
[Omitted
in this translation!]
[W. G. Shepherd, 1983, Penguin
Classics]
‘What’s up, lady most apt
for elephantine niggers?
Why send me presents and
letters, although
I am no strapping youth,
have no distended nose –
yet I sniff out the polyp
or goat that beds
in your armpits’ bushes
more shrewdly
than does the keenest hound
where the boar lies hid.’
– The cock has gone slack,
what sweat, what evil stench,
envelops all her withered
limbs
as she hastes to placate
her invincible madness;
foundation cream tinted
with crocodile crap,
damp powdered chalk, will
not adhere; her lust
makes the overtaxed bedding
and canopy split.
Or else she mocks my
revulsion with these fierce jibes:
‘You flag with Inachia less
than with me;
you manage Inachia thrice
in one night, to me
you are nice and make the
effort just once.
An ill death may that
Lesbia die who discovered
your impotence when I
looked for a bull,
when Amyntas of Cos was mine
for the taking,
in whose invincible groin
is stuck a member
more resolute than a
burgeoning mountain tree.
For whom are those woollens
hurriedly dyed
again and again in Tyrian
purples? For you,
of course, in case in your
age-group
there should be found a
guest whose mistress values him
more highly than you. Oh! I
am so unhappy;
you flee me as lambs fear
wolves, as deer fear lions.’
[David West, 1997, Oxford World’s
Classics]
‘What are you after? It’s black
elephants you should mate with!
Why send me presents? Why write me
letters?
I’m no sturdy youngster. I don’t have
a big fat nose.
But I can sniff the polyp in your nose
or stinking billy in your hairy
armpits quicker
than keenest hound can scent a wild
boar’s lair.’
The sweat and nasty smell get worse all
over
her wrinkled body, as my penis droops
and raging passion cools
and all the while the powdered chalk
and crocodile-shit dye run on her face
as she ruts away,
breaking the bed and the canopy over
it,
and giving me an earful for being so
choosy:
‘You’re not so slack when lying with
Inachia.
Inachia you manage three times a
night, but you flop
at the thought of doing me once. To
hell with Lesbia
who gave me a wimp when I looked for a
bull, and all the time
Amyntas of Cos was mine for the
taking,
with a tool in his great groin
sturdier than
a deeply rooted sapling in the
mountains.
You ask what’s all the hurry. Who are
these woollens for,
all double steeped in Tyrian dyes? For
you, of course,
so that when you’re with your friends,
there will be nobody
whose trollop loves him more than I
love you.
O! I’m so sad. You’ve run from me like
a lamb in panic
from the wicked wolf, or roe-deer from
the lion.’
[Niall Rudd, 2004, rev. 2012, Loeb
Classical Library]
A lampoon and a retort
“What do you want, woman? A black
elephant is just the thing for you. Why do you send me presents and
billetsdoux? I’m not a hard young man, nor do I have an insensitive nose; for
whether it’s a stinking cuttlefish or a goat that lurks in your hairy armpits,
I can smell it out more keenly than a sharp-scented hound detects where a
female boar is hiding.”What a sweat and what a nasty smell comes from her
withered limbs when, finding my penis limp, she presses on to satisfy her wild
lust, her chalk make-up grows damp, and, along with the rosy colour produced
from crocodiles’ dung, begins to run, and now in her animal heat she breaks the
thongs of the bedstead and its canopy! Or again, castigating me for my distaste
in cruel words, she says “You’re not so feeble with Inachia as you are with me.
You can manage her three times a night; with me you’re too limp for a single
session. Damn that woman Lesbia who, when I was looking for a bull, directed me
to a passive creature like yourself! And all the time I could have had Amyntus
of Cos, whose sinewy member stands more firmly in his tireless crotch than a
young tree on the hillside. For whose sake did I send so urgently for those
woolly fleeces, double-dyed in Tyrian crimson? For you, of course, so that at
parties among your age-mates there might be none whose woman loved him more
than I loved you. Oh, I’m so miserable! You run away from me like a lamb
frightened by fierce wolves, or a roe deer by lions!”
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