Part 2

IT chanced that I, the other day, Was sauntering up the Sacred Way, And musing, as my habit is, Some trivial random fantasies, When there comes rushing up a wight Whom only by his name I knew. “Ha! my dear fellow, how d’ye do?” Grasping my hand, he shouted. “Why, As times go, pretty well,” said I; “And you, I trust, can say the same.” But after me as still he came, “Sir, is there anything,” I cried, “You want of me?” “Oh,” he replied, “I’m just the man you ought to know: A scholar, author!” “Is it so? For this I’ll like you all the more!” Then, writhing to escape the bore, I’ll quicken now my pace, now stop, And in my servant’s ear let drop Some words; and all the while I feel Bathed in cold sweat from head to heel. “Oh, for a touch,” I moaned in pain, “Bolanus, of the madcap vein, To put this incubus to rout!” As he went chattering on about Whatever he describes or meets-- The city’s growth, its splendour, size. “You’re dying to be off,” he cries (For all the while I’d been stock dumb); “I’ve seen it this half-hour. But come, Let’s clearly understand each other; It’s no use making all this pother. My mind’s made up to stick by you; So where you go, there I go too.” “Don’t put yourself,” I answered, “pray, So very far out of your way. I’m on the road to see a friend Whom you don’t know, that’s near his end, Away beyond the Tiber far, Close by where Cæsar’s gardens are.” “I’ve nothing in the world to do, And what’s a paltry mile or two? I like it: so I’ll follow you!” Down dropped my ears on hearing this, Just like a vicious jackass’s, That’s loaded heavier than he likes, But off anew my torment strikes: “If well I know myself, you’ll end With making of me more a friend Than Viscus, ay, or Varius; for, Of verses, who can run off more, Or run them off at such a pace? Who dance with such distinguished grace? And as for singing, zounds!” says he, “Hermogenes might envy me!” Here was an opening to break in: “Have you a mother, father, kin, To whom your life is precious?” “None; I’ve closed the eyes of everyone.” Oh, happy they, I inly groan; Now I am left, and I alone. Quick, quick despatch me where I stand; Now is the direful doom at hand, Which erst the Sabine beldam old, Shaking her magic urn, foretold In days when I was yet a boy: “Him shall no poison fell destroy, Nor hostile sword in shock of war, Nor gout, nor colic, nor catarrh. In fulness of time his thread Shall by a prate-apace be shred; So let him, when he’s twenty-one, If he be wise, all babblers shun.” _Quintus Horatius Flaccus Horace._

THE WISH FOR LENGTH OF LIFE

PRODUCE the urn that Hannibal contains, And weigh the mighty dust that yet remains. And this is all? Yet this was once the bold, The aspiring chief, whom Attic could not hold. Afric, outstretched from where the Atlantic roars To Nilus; from the Line to Libya’s shores. Spain conquered, o’er the Pyrenees he bounds. Nature opposed her everlasting mounds, Her Alps and snows. O’er these with torrent force He pours, and rends through rocks his dreadful course. Yet thundering on, “Think nothing done,” he cries, “Till o’er Rome’s prostrate walls I lead my powers, And plant my standard on her hated towers!” Big words? But view his figure, view his face! Ah, for some master hand the lines to trace, As through the Etrurian swamps, by floods increased, The one-eyed chief urged his Getulian beast! But what ensued? Illusive glory, say: Subdued on Zama’s memorable day, He flies in exile to a petty state, With headlong haste, and at a despot’s gate Sits, mighty suppliant--of his life in doubt, Till the Bithynian’s morning nap be out. Nor swords, nor spears, nor stones from engines hurled, Shall quell the man whose frowns alarmed the world. The vengeance due to Cannæ’s fatal field, And floods of human gore, a ring shall yield! Go, madman, go! at toil and danger mock, Pierce the deep snow, and scale the eternal rock, To please the rhetoricians, and become A declamation for the boys of Rome. _Juvenal._

THE ASS’S LEGACY

A PRIEST there was, in times of old, Fond of his church, but fonder of his gold, Who spent his days, and all his thought, In getting what he preached was naught. His chests were full of robes and stuff; Corn filled his garners to the roof, Stored up against the fair-times gay From St. Rémy to Easter day.

An ass he had within his stable, A beast most sound and valuable; For twenty years he lent his strength For the priest, his master, till at length, Worn out with work and age, he died. The priest, who loved him, wept and cried; And, for his service long and hard, Buried him in his own churchyard.

Now turn we to another thing: ’Tis of a bishop that I sing. No greedy miser he, I ween; Prelate so generous ne’er was seen. Full well he loved in company Of all good Christians still to be; When he was well, his pleasure still; His medicine best when he was ill.

Always his hall was full, and there His guests had ever best of fare. Whate’er the bishop lacked or lost, Was bought at once, despite the cost. And so, in spite of vent and score, The bishop’s debts grew more and more. For true it is--this ne’er forget-- Who spends too much gets into debt. One day his friends all with him sat, The bishop talking this and that, Till the discourse on rich clerks ran, Of greedy priests, and how their plan Was all good bishops still to grieve, And of their dues their lords deceive.

And then the priest of whom I’ve told Was mentioned--how he loved his gold. And, because men do often use More freedom than the truth would choose, They gave him wealth, and wealth so much, As those like him could scarcely touch. “And then, besides, a thing he’s done By which great profit might be won, Could it be only spoken here.” Quoth the bishop, “Tell it without fear.” “He’s worse, my lord, than Bedouin, Because his own dead ass, Baldwin, He buried in the sacred ground.” “If this is truth, as shall be found,” The bishop cried, “a forfeit high Will on his worldly riches lie. Summon this wicked priest to me; I will myself in this case be The judge. If Robert’s word be true, Mine are the fine, and forfeit too.”

“Disloyal! God’s enemy and mine, Prepare to pay a heavy fine. Thy ass thou buriest in the place Sacred by church. Now, by God’s grace, I never heard of crime more great. What! Christian men with asses wait! Now, if this thing be proven, know Surely to prison thou wilt go.” “Sir,” said the priest, “thy patience grant; A short delay is all I want. Not that I fear to answer now, But give me what the laws allow.” And so the bishop leaves the priest, Who does not feel as if at feast; But still, because one friend remains, He trembles not at prison pains. His purse it is which never fails For tax or forfeit, fine or vails.

The term arrived, the priest appeared, And met the bishop, nothing feared; For ’neath his girdle safe there hung A leathern purse, well stocked and strung With twenty pieces fresh and bright, Good money all, none clipped or light. “Priest,” said the bishop, “if thou have Answer to give to charge so grave, ’Tis now the time.” “Sir, grant me leave My answer secretly to give. Let me confess to you alone, And, if needs be, my sins atone.” The bishop bent his head to hear; The priest he whispered in his ear: “Sir, spare a tedious tale to tell. My poor ass served me long and well. For twenty years my faithful slave; Each year his work a saving gave Of twenty sous, so that, in all, To twenty livres the sum will fall; And, for the safety of his soul, To you, my lord, he left the whole.” “’Twas rightly done,” the bishop said. And gravely shook his godly head; “And that his soul to heaven may go, My absolution I bestow.”

Now have you heard a truthful lay, How with rich priests the bishops play; And Rutebœuf the moral draws That, spite of kings’ and bishops’ laws, No evil times has he to dread Who still has silver at his need. _Rutebœuf._

A BALLADE OF OLD-TIME LADIES

(_Translated by John Payne._)

TELL me, where, in what land of shade, Hides fair Flora of Rome? and where Are Thaìs and Archipiade, Cousins-german in beauty rare? And Echo, more than mortal fair, That when one calls by river flow, Or marish, answers out of the air? But what has become of last year’s snow?

Where did the learn’d Héloïsa vade, For whose sake Abelard did not spare (Such dole for love on him was laid) Manhood to lose and a cowl to wear? And where is the queen who will’d whilere That Buridan, tied in a sack, should go Floating down Seine from the turret-stair? But what has become of last year’s snow?

Blanche, too, the lily-white queen, that made Sweet music as if she a siren were? Broad-foot Bertha? and Joan, the maid, The good Lorrainer the English bare Captive to Rouen, and burn’d her there? Beatrix, Eremburge, Alys--lo! Where are they, virgins debonair? But what has become of last year’s snow?

ENVOI

Prince, you may question how they fare, This week, or liefer this year, I trow: Still shall this burden the answer bear-- But what has become of last year’s snow? _François Villon._

A CARMAN’S ACCOUNT OF A LAWSUIT

MARRY, I lent my gossip my mare, to fetch hame coals, And he her drounit into the quarry holes; And I ran to the consistory, for to pleinyie, And there I happenit amang ane greedie meinyie. They gave me first ane thing they call _citandum_, Within aucht days I gat but _libellandum_; Within ane month I gat _ad opponendum;_ In half ane year I gat _inter-loquendum;_ And syne I gat--how call ye it?--_ad replicandum;_ Bot I could never ane word yet understand him: And then they gart me cast out mony placks, And gart me pay for four-and-twenty acts. Bot or they came half gate to _concludendum_, The fiend ane plack was left for to defend him. Thus they postponed me twa year with their train, Syne, _hodie ad octo_, bade me come again; And then their rooks they rowpit wonder fast For sentence, silver, they cryit at the last. Of _pronunciandum_ they made me wonder fain, Bot I gat never my gude gray mare again. _Sir David Lyndsay._

THE SOUL’S ERRAND

GO, Soul, the body’s guest, Upon a thankless errand; Fear not to touch the best; The truth shall be thy warrant. Go, since I needs must die, And give them all the lie.

Go tell the Court it glows And shines like rotten wood; Go tell the Church it shows What’s good, but does no good. If Court and Church reply, Give Court and Church the lie.

Tell Potentates they live Acting, but oh! their actions; Not loved, unless they give, Not strong but by their factions. If Potentates reply, Give Potentates the lie.

Tell men of high condition, That rule affairs of state, Their purpose is ambition; Their practice only hate; And if they do reply, Then give them all the lie.

Tell those that brave it most, They beg for more by spending, Who in their greatest cost Seek nothing but commending; And if they make reply, Spare not to give the lie.

Tell Zeal it lacks devotion; Tell Love it is but lust; Tell Time it is but motion; Tell Flesh it is but dust; And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lie.

Tell Age it daily wasteth; Tell Honour how it alters; Tell Beauty how it blasteth; Tell Favour that she falters; And as they do reply, Give every one the lie.

Tell Wit how much it wrangles In fickle points of niceness; Tell Wisdom she entangles Herself in overwiseness; And if they do reply, Then give them both the lie.

Tell Physic of her boldness; Tell Skill it is pretension; Tell Charity of coldness; Tell Law it is contention; And if they yield reply, Then give them all the lie.

Tell Fortune of her blindness; Tell Nature of decay; Tell Friendship of unkindness; Tell Justice of delay; And if they do reply, Then give them still the lie.

Tell Arts they have no soundness, But vary by esteeming; Tell Schools they lack profoundness, And stand too much on seeming. If Arts and Schools reply, Give Arts and Schools the lie.

Tell Faith it’s fled the city; Tell how the country erreth; Tell, Manhood shakes off pity; Tell, Virtue least preferreth; And if they do reply, Spare not to give the lie.

So, when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing, Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing, Yet stab at thee who will, No stab the Soul can kill! _Sir Walter Raleigh._

OF A CERTAIN MAN

THERE was (not certain when) a certain preacher That never learned, and yet became a teacher, Who, having read in Latin thus a text Of _erat quidam homo_, much perplexed, He seemed the same with study great to scan, In English thus, _There was a certain man_. “But now,” quoth he, “good people, note you this, He said there was: he doth not say there is; For in these days of ours it is most plain Of promise, oath, word, deed, no man’s certain; Yet by my text you see it comes to pass That surely once a certain man there was; But yet, I think, in all your Bible no man Can find this text, _There was a certain woman_.” _Sir John Harrington._

A PRECISE TAILOR

A TAILOR, thought a man of upright dealing-- True, but for lying, honest, but for stealing-- Did fall one day extremely sick by chance, And on the sudden was in wondrous trance; The fiends of hell mustering in fearful manner, Of sundry colour’d silks display’d a banner Which he had stolen, and wish’d, as they did tell, That he might find it all one day in hell. The man, affrighted with this apparition, Upon recovery grew a great precisian: He bought a Bible of the best translation, And in his life he show’d great reformation; He walkéd mannerly, he talkéd meekly, He heard three lectures and two sermons weekly; He vow’d to shun all company unruly, And in his speech he used no oath but truly; And zealously to keep the Sabbath’s rest, His meat for that day on the eve was drest; And lest the custom which he had to steal Might cause him sometimes to forget his zeal, He gives his journeyman a special charge, That if the stuff, allowance being large, He found his fingers were to filch inclined, Bid him to have the banner in his mind. This done (I scant can tell the rest for laughter), A captain of a ship came, three days after, And brought three yards of velvet and three-quarters, To make Venetians down below the garters. He, that precisely knew what was enough, Soon slipt aside three-quarters of the stuff. His man, espying it, said in derision, “Master, remember how you saw the vision!” “Peace, knave!” quoth he, “I did not see one rag Of such a colour’d silk in all the flag.” _Sir John Harrington._

THE WILL

BEFORE I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe, Great Love, some legacies: Here I bequeathe Mine eyes to Argus, if mine eyes can see; If they be blind, then, Love, I give them thee; My tongue to fame; to embassadors mine ears; To women or the sea, my tears. Thou, Love, hast taught me heretofore, By making me serve her who had twenty more, That I should give to none but such as had too much before.

My constancy I to the planets give; My truth to them who at the court do live; My ingenuity and openness To Jesuits; to buffoons my pensiveness; My silence to any who abroad have been; My money to a Capuchin. Thou, Love, taught’st me, by appointing me To love there where no love received can be, Only to give to such as have an incapacity.

My faith I give to Roman Catholics; All my good works unto the schismatics Of Amsterdam; my best civility And courtship to a university; My modesty I give to soldiers bare; My patience let gamesters share. Thou, Love, taught’st me, by making me Love her that holds my love disparity, Only to give to those that count my gifts indignity.

I give my reputation to those Which were my friends; mine industry to foes; To schoolmen I bequeathe my doubtfulness; My sickness to physicians, or excess; To Nature all that I in rhyme have writ; And to my company my wit. Thou, Love, by making me adore Her who begot this love in me before, Taught’st me to make as though I gave, when I do but restore.

To him for whom the passing bell next tolls I give my physic-books; my written rolls Of moral counsel I to Bedlam give; My brazen medals unto them which live In want of bread; to them which pass among All foreigners, mine English tongue. Thou, Love, by making me love one Who thinks her friendship a fit portion For younger lovers, dost my gifts thus disproportion.

Therefore I’ll give no more, but I’ll undo The world by dying, because love dies too. Then all your beauties will no more be worth Than gold in mines where none doth draw it forth; And all your graces no more use shall have Than a sundial in a grave. Thou, Love, taught’st me, by making me Love her who doth neglect both thee and me, To invent and practise this one way to annihilate all three. _John Donne._

SHAKESPEAREAN SATIRE

_FROM “KING HENRY IV”_

MY liege, I did deny no prisoners; But I remember, when the fight was done, When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dress’d, Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new reap’d, Show’d like a stubble-land at harvest-home. He was perfuméd like a milliner, And ’twixt his finger and his thumb he held A pouncet-box, which ever and anon He gave his nose and took ’t away again; Who, therewith angry, when it next came there, Took it in snuff: and still he smil’d and talk’d, And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, He call’d them untaught knaves, unmannerly, To bring a slovenly, unhandsome corse Betwixt the wind and his nobility. With many holiday and lady terms He question’d me; among the rest, demanded My prisoners in your Majesty’s behalf. I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold, To be so pester’d with a popinjay, Out of my grief and my impatience, Answer’d neglectingly I know not what, He should, or he should not; for he made me mad To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet, And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman Of guns and drums and wounds--God save the mark!-- And telling me the sovereign’st thing on earth Was parmaceti for an inward bruise; And that it was great pity, so it was, This villainous saltpetre should be digg’d Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, Which many a good tall fellow had destroy’d So cowardly; and but for these vile guns, He would himself have been a soldier. This bald, unjointed chat of his, my lord, I answer’d indirectly, as I said; And I beseech you, let not this report Come current for an accusation Betwixt my love and your high Majesty. _Shakespeare._

_FROM “LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST”_

THIS fellow pecks up wit, as pigeons pease, And utters it again when God doth please. He is wit’s pedler, and retails his wares At wakes and wassails, meetings, markets, fairs; And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know, Have not the grace to grace it with such show. This gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve; Had he been Adam, he had tempted Eve. He can carve, too, and lisp; why, this is he That kiss’d his hand away in courtesy; This is the ape of form, monsieur the nice, That, when he plays at table, chides the dice In honourable terms; nay, he can sing A mean most meanly; and in ushering, Mend him who can: the ladies call him sweet; The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet. This is the flower that smiles on every one, To show his teeth as white as whale’s bone; And consciences that will not die in debt Pay him the due of honey-tongued Boyet.

* * * * *

See where it comes!--Behaviour, what wert thou Till this man show’d thee? and what art thou now? _Shakespeare._

_FROM “AS YOU LIKE IT”_

ALL the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits, and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms: Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel, And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school: And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad Made to his mistress’ eyebrow: Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon’s mouth: And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lin’d, With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part: The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon, With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side; His youthful hose well sav’d, a world too wide For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound: Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. _Shakespeare._

HORACE CONCOCTING AN ODE