Satire IX: Juvenal, Nævolus

Juv. still drooping, Nævolus! What, prithee, say,Portends this show of grief from day to day,This copy of flayed Marsyas? what dost thouWith such a rueful face, and such a brow,As Ravola wore, when caught--Not so cast downLooked Pollio, when, of late, he scoured the town,And, proffering treble rate, from friend to friend,Found none so foolish, none so mad, to lend!But, seriously, for thine's a serious case,Whence came those sudden wrinkles in thy face?I knew thee once, a gay, light-hearted slave,Contented with the little fortune gave;A sprightly guest, of every table free,And famed for modish wit and repartee.Now all's reversed: dejected is thy mien,Thy locks are like a tangled thicket seen;And every limb, once smoothed with nicest care,Rank with neglect, a shrubbery of hair!What dost thou with that dull, dead, withered look,Like some old debauchee, long ague-shook?All is not well within; for, still we findThe face the unerring index of the mind,And as THIS feels or fancies joys or woes,THAT pales with sorrow, or with rapture glows.What should I think? Too sure the scene is changed,And thou from thy old course of life estranged:For late, as I remember, at all haunts,Where dames of fashion flock to hire gallants,At Isis and at Ganymede's abodes,At Cybele's, dread mother of the gods,Nay, at chaste Ceres' (for at shame they spurn,And even her temples now to brothels turn),None was so famed: the favorites of the town,Baffled alike in business and renown,Murmuring retired; wives, daughters, were thy own,And--if the truth MUST come--not THEY alone.NÆV. Right: and to some this trade has answered yet;But not to me: for what is all I get?A drugget cloak, to save my gown from rain, }Coarse in its texture, dingy in its grain, }And a few pieces of the "second vein!" }FATE GOVERNS ALL. Fate, with full sway, presidesEven o'er those parts, which modest nature hides;And little, if her genial influence fail,Will vigor stead, or boundless powers avail:Though Virro, gloating on your naked charms,Foam with desire, and woo you to his arms,With many a soothing, many a flattering phrase--For your cursed pathics have such winning ways!Hear now this prodigy, this mass impure,Of lust and avarice! "Let us, friend, be sure:I've given thee this, and this;--now count the sums:"(He counts, and woos the while), "behold! it comesTo five sestertia, five!--now, look again,And see how much it overpays thy pain:"What! "overpays?"--but you are formed for love,And worthy of the cup and couch of Jove!--Will those relieve a client!--those, who grudgeA wretched pittance to the painful drudgeThat toils in their disease?--O mark, my friend,The blooming youth, to whom we presents send,Or on the Female Calends, or the dayWhich gave him birth! in what a lady-wayHe takes our favors as he sits in state,And sees adoring crowds besiege his gate!Insatiate sparrow! whom do your domains,Your numerous hills await, your numerous plains?Regions, that such a tract of land embrace,That kites are tired within the unmeasured space!For you the purple vine luxuriant glows,On Trifoline's plain, and on Misenus' brows;And hollow Gaurus, from his fruitful hills,Your spacious vaults with generous nectar fills:What were it, then, a few poor roods to grantTo one so worn with lechery and want?Sure yonder female, with the child she bred,The dog their playmate, and their little shed,Had, with more justice, been conferred on me,Than on a cymbal-beating debauchee!"I'm troublesome," you say, when I apply,"And give! give! give! is my eternal cry."--But house-rent due solicits to be sped,And my sole slave, importunate for bread,Follows me, clamoring in as loud a toneAs Polyphemus, when his prey was flown.Nor will this one suffice, the toil's so great!Another must be bought; and both must eat.What shall I say, when cold December blows,And their bare limbs shrink at the driving snows,What shall I say, their drooping hearts to cheer?"Be merry, boys, the spring will soon be here!"But though my other merits you deny,One yet must be allowed--that had not I,I, your devoted client, lent my aid,Your wife had to this hour remained a maid.You know what motives urged me to the deed,And what was promised, could I but succeed:--Oft in my arms the flying fair I caught,And back to your cold bed, reluctant, brought,Even when she'd canceled all her former vows,And now was signing to another spouse.What pains it cost to set these matters right,While you stood whimpering at the door all night,I spare to tell:--a friend like me has tiedFull many a knot, when ready to divide.Where will you turn you now, sir? whither fly?What, to my charges, first, or last, reply?Is it no merit, speak, ungrateful! none,To give you thus a daughter, or a son,Whom you may breed with credit at your board,And prove yourself a man upon record?--Haste, with triumphal wreaths your gates adorn,You're now a father, now no theme for scorn;My toils have ta'en the opprobrium from your name,And stopp'd the babbling of malicious fame.A parent's rights you now may proudly share,Now, thank my industry, be named an heir;Take now the whole bequest, with what beside,From lucky windfalls, may in time betide;And other blessings, if I but repeatMy pains, and make the number THREE complete.JUV. Nay, thou hast reason to complain, I feel:But, what says Virro?NÆV. Not a syllable;But, while my wrongs and I unnoticed pass,Hunts out some other drudge, some two-legged ass.Enough;--and never, on your life, unfoldThe secret thus to you, in friendship told;But let my injuries, undivulged, still restWithin the closest chamber of your breast:How the discovery might be borne, none knows--And your smooth pathics are such fatal foes!Virro, who trusts me yet, may soon repent,And hate me for the confidence he lent;With fire and sword my wretched life pursue,As if I'd blabbed already all I knew.Sad situation mine! for, in your ear,The rich can never buy revenge too dear;And--but enough: be cautious, I entreat,And secret as the Athenian judgment-seat.JUV. And dost thou seriously believe, fond swain,The actions of the great unknown remain?Poor Corydon! even beasts would silence break,And stocks and stones, if servants did not, speak.Bolt every door, stop every cranny tight,Close every window, put out every light;Let not a whisper reach the listening ear,No noise, no motion; let no soul be near;Yet all that passed at the cock's second crow,The neighboring vintner shall, ere daybreak, know;With what besides the cook and carver's brain,Subtly malicious, can in vengeance feign!For thus they glory, with licentious tongue,To quit the harsh command and galling thong.Should these be mute, some drunkard in the streetsWill pour out all he knows to all he meets,Force them, unwilling, the long tale to hear,And with his stories drench their hapless ear.Go now, and earnestly of those request,To lock, like me, the secret in their breast:Alas! they hear thee not; and will not sellThe dear, dear privilege--to see and tell,For more stolen wine than late Saufeia boused,When, for the people's welfare, she--caroused!LIVE VIRTUOUSLY:--thus many a reason cries,But chiefly this, that so thou may'st despiseThy servant's tongue; for, lay this truth to heart,The tongue is the vile servant's vilest part:Yet viler he, who lives in constant dreadOf the domestic spies that--eat his bread.NÆV. Well have you taught, how we may best disdainThe envenomed babbling of our household train;But this is general, and to all applies:--What, in my proper case, would you advise?After such flattering expectations cross'd,And so much time in vain dependence lost?For youth, too transient flower! of life's short dayThe shortest part, but blossoms--to decay.Lo! while we give the unregarded hourTo revelry and joy, in Pleasure's bower,While now for rosy wreaths our brows to twine,And now for nymphs we call, and now for wine,The noiseless foot of Time steals swiftly by,And ere we dream of manhood, age is nigh!JUV. Oh, fear not: thou canst never seek in vainA pathic friend, while these seven hills remain.Hither in crowds the master-misses come,From every point, as to their proper home:One hope has failed, another may succeed;Meanwhile do thou on hot eringo feed.NÆV. Tell this to happier men; the Fates ne'er meantSuch luck for me: my Clotho is content,When all my oil a bare subsistence gains,And fills my belly, by my back and reins.O, my poor Lares! dear, domestic Powers!To whom I come with incense, cakes, and flowers,When shall my prayers, so long preferred in vain,Acceptance find? O, when shall I obtainEnough to free me from the constant dreadOf life's worst ill, gray hairs and want of bread?On mortgage, six-score pounds a year, or eight,A little sideboard, which, for overweight,Fabricius would have censured; a stout pairOf hireling Mæsians, to support my chair,In the thronged Circus: add to these, one slaveWell skilled to paint, another to engrave;And I--but let me give these day-dreams o'er--Wish as I may, I ever shall be poor;For when to Fortune I prefer my prayers,The obdurate goddess stops at once her ears;Stops with that wax which saved Ulysses' crew, }When by the Syrens' rocks and songs they flew, }False songs and treacherous rocks, that all to ruin drew. }