Part 8

TRANSLATION.

From Horace, Book II. Ode X., beginning “Rectius vives, Licini,” &c.

YOU better sure shall live, not evermore Trying high seas; nor, while sea’s rage you flee, Pressing too much upon ill-harboured shore.

The golden mean who loves, lives safely free From filth of foreworn house, and quiet lives, Released from court, where envy needs must be.

The wind most oft the hugest pine tree grieves: The stately towers come down with greater fall: The highest hills the bolt of thunder cleaves.

Evil haps do fill with hope, good haps appall With fear of change, the courage well prepared: Foul winters, as they come, away they shall.

Though present times, and past, with evils be snared, They shall not last: with cithern silent Muse, Apollo wakes, and bow hath sometime spared.

In hard estate, with stout shows, valour use, The same man still, in whom wisdom prevails; In too full wind draw in thy swelling sails.

A SONNET BY SIR EDWARD DYER.

PROMETHEUS, when first from heaven high He brought down fire, till then on earth not seen; Fond of delight, a satyr, standing by, Gave it a kiss, as it like sweet had been.

Feeling forthwith the other burning power, Wood with the smart, with shouts and shrieking shrill, He sought his ease in river, field, and bower; But, for the time, his grief went with him still.

So silly I, with that unwonted sight, In human shape an angel from above, Feeding mine eyes, th’ impression there did light; That since I run and rest as pleaseth love: The difference is, the satyr’s lips, my heart, He for a while, I evermore, have smart.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY’S SONNET IN REPLY.

A SATYR once did run away for dread, With sound of horn which he himself did blow: Fearing and feared, thus from himself he fled, Deeming strange evil in that he did not know.

Such causeless fears when coward minds do take, It makes them fly that which they fain would have; As this poor beast, who did his rest forsake, Thinking not why, but how, himself to save.

Ev’n thus might I, for doubts which I conceive Of mine own words, my own good hap betray; And thus might I, for fear of may be, leave The sweet pursuit of my desiréd prey. Better like I thy satyr, dearest Dyer, Who burnt his lips to kiss fair shining fire.

MUST LOVE LAMENT?

MY mistress lowers, and saith I do not love: I do protest, and seek with service due, In humble mind, a constant faith to prove; But for all this, I cannot her remove From deep vain thought that I may not be true.

If oaths might serve, ev’n by the Stygian lake, Which poets say the gods themselves do fear, I never did my vowéd word forsake: For why should I, whom free choice slave doth make, Else-what in face, than in my fancy bear?

My Muse, therefore, for only thou canst tell, Tell me the cause of this my causeless woe? Tell, how ill thought disgraced my doing well? Tell, how my joys and hopes thus foully fell To so low ebb that wonted were to flow?

O this it is, the knotted straw is found; In tender hearts, small things engender hate: A horse’s worth laid waste the Trojan ground; A three-foot stool in Greece made trumpets sound; An ass’s shade e’er now hath bred debate.

If Greeks themselves were moved with so small cause, To twist those broils, which hardly would untwine: Should ladies fair be tied to such hard laws, As in their moods to take a ling’ring pause? I would it not, their metal is too fine.

My hand doth not bear witness with my heart, She saith, because I make no woeful lays, To paint my living death and endless smart: And so, for one that felt god Cupid’s dart, She thinks I lead and live too merry days.

Are poets then the only lovers true, Whose hearts are set on measuring a verse? Who think themselves well blest, if they renew Some good old dump that Chaucer’s mistress knew; And use but you for matters to rehearse.

Then, good Apollo, do away thy bow: Take harp and sing in this our versing time, And in my brain some sacred humour flow, That all the earth my woes, sighs, tears may know; And see you not that I fall low to rhyme.

As for my mirth, how could I but be glad, Whilst that methought I justly made my boast That only I the only mistress had? But now, if e’er my face with joy be clad, Think Hannibal did laugh when Carthage lost.

Sweet lady, as for those whose sullen cheer, Compared to me, made me in lightness sound; Who, stoic-like, in cloudy hue appear; Who silence force to make their words more dear; Whose eyes seem chaste, because they look on ground:

Believe them not, for physic true doth find, Choler adust is joyed in woman-kind.