And Horace looks one blot, all soot and oil!
Even then, the stipend thus reduced, thus small,
Without a lawsuit, rarely comes at all.
Add yet, ye parents, add to the disgrace,
And heap new hardships on this wretched race.
Make it a point that all, and every part,
Of their own science, be possess'd by heart;
That general history with our own they blend,
And have all authors at their finger's end:
Still ready to inform you, should you meet,
And ask them at the bath, or in the street,
Who nurs'd Anchises; from what country came
The step-dame of Archemorus, what her name;
How long Acestes flourish'd, and what store
Of generous wine, the Phrygians from him bore-
Make it a point too, that, like ductile clay,
They mould the tender mind, and, day by day,
Bring out the form of Virtue; that they prove,
A father to the youths, in care and love;
And watch that no obscenities prevail—
And trust me, friend, even Argus' self might fail,
The busy hands of schoolboys to espy,
And the lewd fires which twinkle in their eye.
All this, and more, exact; and, having found
The man you seek, say-When the year comes round, We'll give thee for thy twelvemonth's anxious pains, As much as, in an hour, a fencer gains!
ARGUMENT OF THE EIGHTH SATIRE
THE object of this satire is to show that true nobility and distinction are conferred, not by long descent or high birth, but by personal qualities alone. Accordingly, the greater part of it is devoted to exposing the degeneracy and corruption of the aristocracy of Rome; they are extortionate and unjust in the provinces, wanton and profligate at home; instead of supporting the dignity of the names they bear, they condescend to the lowest company and the most degrading pursuits; and yet they imagine that their lineage gives them a position above all other men. To complete his proof of the vanity of birth, Juvenal, in conclusion, gives instances-Cicero being the most striking-of men of obscure or plebeian descent, whose deeds witnessed to their real nobility of spirit.
STEMMATA quid faciunt? quid prodest, Pontice, longo
Sanguine censeri pictosque ostendere vultus
Majorum et stantes in curribus Aemilianos
Et Curios jam dimidios humerosque minorem
Corvinum et Galbam auriculis nasoque carentem ?
Quis fructus, generis tabula jactare capaci
Corvinum, posthac multa contingere virga
Fumosos Equitum cum Dicatore magistros,
Si coram Lepidis male vivitur? Effigies quo
Tot bellatorum, si luditur alea pernox
Ante Numantinos? si dormire incipis ortu
Luciferi, quo signa duces et castra movebant?
Cur Allobrogicis et magna gaudeat ara
Natus in Herculeo Fabius lare, si cupidus, si
Vanus et Euganea quantumvis mollior agna;
Si tenerum attritus Catinensi pumice lumbum
Squalentes traducit avos emptorque veneni
Frangenda miseram funestat imagine gentem?
Tota licet veteres exornent undique cerae
Atria, nobilitas sola est atque unica virtus.
"YOUR ancient house!
The wondrous merits of a pedigree:
No, Ponticus ;-nor of a proud display
Of smoaky ancestors, in wax or clay;
Aemilius, mounted on his car sublime,
Curius, half wasted by the teeth of time,
Corvinus, dwindled to a shapeless bust,
And high-born Galba, crumbling into dust,
No more.-I cannot sce
What boots it, on the LINEAL TREE to trace,
Through many a branch, the founders of our race,
Time-honour'd chiefs; if, in their sight, we give
A loose to vice, and like low villains live?
Say, what avails it, that, on either hand,
The stern Numantii, an illustrious band,
Frown from the walls, if their degenerate race
Waste the long night at dice, before their face?
If, staggering, to a drowsy bed they creep,
At that prime hour when, starting from their sleep,
Their sires the signal of the fight unfurl'd,
And drew their legions forth, and won the world?
Say, why should Fabius, of the Herculean name,
To the GREAT Altar, vaunt his lineal claim,
If, softer than Euganean lambs, the youth,
His wanton limbs, with Aetna's pumice, smooth,
And shame his rough-hewn sires? if greedy, vain,
If, a vile trafficker in secret bane,
He blast his wretched kindred with a bust,
For publick vengeance to―reduce to dust!
Fond man! though all the heroes of your line
Bedeck your halls, and round your galleries shine,
In proud display; yet, take this truth from me,
VIRTUE ALONE IS TRUE NOBILITY.
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