Metrum I
Songs with zeal flourishing I did once compose,
But now doleful, alas! Sad themes am compelled to undertake.
Lo! I, the tattered Muses say, must write of these things,
That with honest tears these elegiacs may bedew my face.
Upon the Muses, at least, could prevail no fear,
Lest as my companions they no longer follow my march.
They, the glory of my once-fortunate and flourishing youth,
Now comfort my Orlays’1 sad old age.
For hastened by evils cameth she, unexpected Old Age,
And grief an epoch bid her begin -- her own.
Out-of-season are fallen from my brow hoary hairs
And trembling all over my exhausted body is my worn-out flesh.
Death is Man's fortune, for in pleasant years Death does not himself
Sow - but in sad times, oft called, cometh he.Alas!
How upon deaf ear does he from the wretched turn,
And weeping eyes does he deny to close, oh cruel Death!
All the while was with airy rewards Fortune in ill faith bestowing,
A life had a grim hour all but nearly devoured: mine own.
Now her own deceptive face has cloudy Fortune altered,
And forward drags unwelcome delays with unholy life.
Why me lucky did so oft ye vaunt, oh friends of mine?
He who has fallen, was upon a firm step not he!
Prosa I
On all these things within myself in silence was I thinking on, and a tearful complaint with the aid of a pen was I writing, when standing near to me, above my head was a woman of fear-invoking countenance, with fire-flashing, sharp eyes, beyond the usual power of Men, and with lively complexion and unquenchable liveliness; although she seemed so full of the bloom of life that in no way would one believe her to be of our age, she was of a stature of uncertain distinction. For now indeed to the common height of Men herself she had, but now to strike the heavens with the top of her head she seemed! Whenever higher her head she had borne aloft, even the very heavens she was entering, and Men gazing back at her, in vain their vision she made. Her raiment was of the most fine fibers, with the under-woven cloth a craft not-to-be-undone; and when afterwards she proclaimed to me did I then learn that with her own hands she herself had woven them. Their appearance, just as it is accustomed for imagines to become soot-covered, the peculiar darkness of disdainful old age had covered. On the outermost edge of these was the Greek Π; but on the hemline a Θ was read there woven. And also, between either letter in the manner of stairs were certain marked steps seen, by means of which from the lower to the higher letter there be an upwards climb. However, this same garment had hands of some violent men rent and small parts --as many as able-- they had borne off. Her right hand booklets was wielding, and her left hand a scepter.
When this woman beheld the poetic Muses, how near my couch they stood and because of my weeping words were reciting, she was quite a bit disturbed and in her stern bright-eyes she was inflamed.
"Who," saith she, "has allowed these stage-playing strumpets towards this ill man to approach? What pains are these of his that not only with no medicines might they administer care, but --over and above this!--they with sweet poisons him nourish? For these are they, who with the blightful thorns of emotions they the crops of reason --abounding in fruit -- kill. And Men's minds they inure to illness. Set free they do not. But if this were any-old-someone -- just as is the common rabble accustomed to ye -- your flatteries would draw such one away; less irritatingly must he be endured I should consider -- for of course not at all would on such a one my efforts be betrayed. But him in the Eleatic and Academic pursuits has been nourished. But get ye gone; ye had better, ye Sirens! Up until the end sweet ye are, and him my Muses must care for and make him right -- now leave him!"
At these words, the lot of them reprimanded cast to the ground their countenance --so gloomy they were! -- and having avowed with red blushing their shamefacedness, the threshold they --so grim!-- departed. But I, whose sharpness of sight by tears drowned was darkened, nor to discern was I able, who pray this woman was of such commanding prestige. And with my gaze earth-ward fixed, what in the world she intended to do I continually to await began -- in silence. Then, nearer approaching, she on the outermost part of my little couch sat down and upon my face gazing, my face heavy with sorrow and upon the ground sadly downcast, with these verses my mind's disturbance did she lament.
Metrum II
Prosa II
"But for remedies," saith she, "it is time more than for complaints." But then in her wide eyes me she held in her grasp: "Art thou he," asketh she, "who by our milk once nourished, by our provisions reared that into a manly spirit's vigour thou hadst emerged? But anywise, such arms had we brought together, which if not before thou hadst cast them aside, with un-vanquished steadfastness for thee they would be watching out. Dost thee not know me? Why art thou silent? Is it with shame or stupidity that thou hast been quiet? I would prefer shame, but thee, as I see it, stupidity crushes underfoot."
When I was not only silent, but tongueless, even more so dumb, me she had seen, she moved her hand to my breast softly. "There is no danger," saith she, "lethargy endures, the common disease of those minds fooled away to nothing. He has -- for awhile -- forgotten himself. He will recall easily, if indeed he will have remembered us a'fore. However much it is possible, for a time, let us his eyes with the fog of mortal-stuff darkening, wipe all away."
These things she said, and while mine eyes with tears were rising like waves, with her garment drawn together into a fold she dried them.
If the wind-whipped waves should churn the sands,
As many as lie upon the strands,
Or as many as on starshine-dappled nights
Heav'n's constellations blaze with light,
Should as much wealth Plenty from her horn packed full
And back her hand she n'er pull --
Yet the human race would still complain,
Sad weeping they would yet maintain.
If some hand divine should all their prayers uplift,
And much gold be his godly gift,
While even dressing ambitions with distinctions bright --
Yet worthless in their sight
Seem these once craved-for gains, as voracious Greed
Opes up new maws to feed.
What bridles can curb this lust impelled headlong
Within some limits strong,
When even in those who own all one might ask for,
Burns the thirst of owning more?
The rich who believe themselves in need and trembling cry,
N'er will any riches satisfy.
Prosa II
"But for remedies," saith she, "it is time more than for complaints." But then in her wide eyes me she held in her grasp: "Art thou he," asketh she, "who by our milk once nourished, by our provisions reared that into a manly spirit's vigour thou hadst emerged? But anywise, such arms had we brought together, which if not before thou hadst cast them aside, with un-vanquished steadfastness for thee they would be watching out. Dost thee not know me? Why art thou silent? Is it with shame or stupidity that thou hast been quiet? I would prefer shame, but thee, as I see it, stupidity crushes underfoot."
When I was not only silent, but tongueless, even more so dumb, me she had seen, she moved her hand to my breast softly. "There is no danger," saith she, "lethargy endures, the common disease of those minds fooled away to nothing. He has -- for awhile -- forgotten himself. He will recall easily, if indeed he will have remembered us a'fore. However much it is possible, for a time, let us his eyes with the fog of mortal-stuff darkening, wipe all away."
These things she said, and while mine eyes with tears were rising like waves, with her garment drawn together into a fold she dried them.
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