And worthy of the votary, and the shrine !
Pacuvius, did our laws the crime allow,
The fairest of his numerous slaves would vow;
The blooming boy, the love-inspiring maid,
With garlands crown, and to the temple lead;
Nay, seize his Iphigene, prepared to wed,
And drag her to the altar, from the bed;
Though hopeless, like the Grecian sire, to find,
In happy hour, the substituted hind.
And who shall say my countryman does ill?
A thousand ships are trifles to a Will!
For Paccius, should the fates his health restore,
May cancel every item framed before,
(Won by his friend's vast merits, and beset,
On all sides, by the inextricable net,)
And, in one line, convey plate, jewels, gold,
Lands, every thing to him, " to have and hold.”
With victory crown'd, Pacuvius struts along,
And smiles contemptuous on the baffled throng;
Then counts his gains, and deems himself o'erpaid,
For the cheap murder of one wretched maid.
Health to the man! and may he тHUS get more, Than Nero plunder'd! pile his shining store, High, mountain high; in years a Nestor prove, And, loving none, ne'er know another's love!
ARGUMENT OF THE THIRTEENTH
THIS satire is addressed to one Calvinus, who, having deposited a sum of money with a trustee, is disgusted and enraged to find himself deceived and robbed of it. Juvenal recommends a calmer attitude, and one more fitting to the case; the world is old and wicked; honesty is now the exception, perjury and crime the rule among men; some deny the Gods' existence, others trust to their neglect or connivance; Rome swarms with frauds worse than that which Calvinus has suffered; and no one marvels at the evil which is so universal; let Calvinus not lament his lot with unreasonable bitterness; his misfortune is not singular. Revenge is unworthy of a rational being; yet the guilty cannot escape themselves and their guilt; conscience makes cowards of them, turning life to a burden, turning their very repose to agony. The satire ends with a vivid picture of the wicked man haunted by his crime.
EXEMPLO quodcunque malo committitur, ipsi
Displicet auctori. Prima est haec ultio, quod se
Judice nemo nocens absolvitur, improba quamvis
Gratia fallaci Praetoris vicerit urna.
Quid sentire putas omnes, Calvine, recenti
De scelere et fidei violatae crimine? Sed nec
Tam tenuis census tibi contigit, ut mediocris
Jacturae te mergat onus; nec rara videmus,
Quae pateris. Casus multis hic cognitus ac jam
Tritus et e medio fortunae ductus acervo
Ponamus nimios gemitus: flagrantior aequo
Non debet dolor esse viri, nec vulnere major.
Tu quamvis levium minimam exiguamque malorum
Particulam vix ferre potes, spumantibus ardens
Visceribus, sacrum tibi quod non reddat amicus
Depositum? Stupet haec, qui jam post terga reliquit
Sexaginta annos, Fonteio Consule natus?
An nihil in melius tot rerum proficis usu?
Magna quidem, sacris quae dat praecepta libellis,
Victrix fortunae sapientia: ducimus autem
Hos quoque felices, qui ferre incommoda vitae,
Nec jactare jugum, vita didicere magistra.
Quae tam festa dies, ut cesset prodere furem,
Perfidiam, fraudes atque omni ex crimine lucrum
Quaesitum et partos gladio vel pyxide nummos?
MAN, wretched man, whene'er he stoops to sin,
Feels, with the act, a strong remorse within;
'Tis the first vengeance: Conscience tries the cause,
And vindicates the violated laws;
Though the bribed Praetor at their sentence spurn,
And falsify the verdict of the Urn.
What says the world, not always, friend, unjust,
Of this late injury, this breach of trust?
That thy estate so small a loss can bear,
And that the evil, now no longer rare,
Is one of that inevitable set,
Which man is born to suffer, and forget.
Then moderate thy grief; 'tis mean to show,
An anguish disproportion'd to the blow.
But thou, so new to crosses, as to feel
The slightest portion of the slightest ill,
Art fired with rage, because a friend forswears
The sacred pledge, intrusted to his cares.
What, thou, Calvinus, bear so weak a mind!
Thou, who hast left full three-score years behind!
Heavens, have they taught thee nothing! nothing, friend!
And art thou grown gray-headed to no end!——
Wisdom, I know, contains a sovereign charm,
To vanquish fortune, or at least disarm :
Blest they who walk by her unerring rule!-
Nor those unblest, who, tutor❜d in life's school,
Have learn'd of old experience to submit,
And lightly bear the yoke they cannot quit.
What day so sacred, which no guilt profanes,
No secret fraud, no open rapine stains?
What hour, in which no dark assassins prowl,
Nor point the sword for hire, nor drug the bowl?
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