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A Satire Anthology
Автор
Год написания книги
2017
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An angel came. “Ah, friend,” he cried,
“No more in flattering hope confide.
Can thy good deeds in former times
Outweigh the balance of thy crimes?
What widow or what orphan prays
To crown thy life with length of days?
A pious action’s in thy power;
Embrace with joy the happy hour.
Now, while you draw the vital air,
Prove your intention is sincere:
This instant give a hundred pounds;
Your neighbours want, and you abound.”
“But why such haste?” the Sick Man whines:
“Who knows as yet what Heaven designs?
Perhaps I may recover still;
That sum, and more, are in my will.”
“Fool,” says the Vision, “now ’tis plain,
Your life, your soul, your heaven was gain;
From every side, with all your might,
You scraped, and scraped beyond your right;
And after death would fain atone,
By giving what is not your own.”
“Where there is life there’s hope,” he cried;
“Then why such haste?” – so groaned, and died.
John Gay.
SANDYS’ GHOST
OR A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE NEW OVID’S METAMORPHOSES, AS IT WAS INTENDED TO BE TRANSLATED BY PERSONS OF QUALITY
YE Lords and Commons, men of wit
And pleasure about town,
Read this, ere you translate one bit
Of books of high renown.
Beware of Latin authors all!
Nor think your verses sterling,
Though with a golden pen you scrawl,
And scribble in a Berlin;
For not the desk with silver nails,
Nor bureau of expense,
Nor standish well japanned avails
To writing of good sense.
Hear how a ghost in dead of night,
With saucer eyes of fire,
In woful wise did sore affright
A wit and courtly squire.
Rare Imp of Phœbus, hopeful youth,
Like puppy tame that uses
To fetch and carry, in his mouth,
The works of all the Muses.
Ah, why did he write poetry,
That hereto was so civil,
And sell his soul for vanity,
To rhyming and the devil?
A desk he had of curious work,
With glittering studs about;
Within the same did Sandys lurk,
Though Ovid lay without.
Now, as he scratched to fetch up thought,
Forth popped the sprite so thin,
And from the key-hole bolted out,
All upright as a pin,
With whiskers, band, and pantaloon,
And ruff composed most duly.
The squire he dropped his pen full soon,
While as the light burnt bluely.
“Ho! Master Sam,” quoth Sandys’ sprite,
“Write on, nor let me scare ye;
Forsooth, if rhymes fall in not right,
To Budgell seek, or Carey.
“I hear the beat of Jacob’s drums;
Poor Ovid finds no quarter.
See first the merry P – comes
In haste, without his garter.
“Then lords and lordlings, squires and knights,
Wits, witlings, prigs, and peers;
Garth at St. James’s, and at White’s,
Beat up for volunteers.
“What Fenton will not do, nor Gay,
Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan,
Tom Burnett or Tom D’Urfey may,
John Dunton, Steele, or anyone.
“If Justice Philips’ costive head
Some frigid rhymes disburses,
They shall like Persian tales be read,
And glad both babes and nurses.
“No more in flattering hope confide.
Can thy good deeds in former times
Outweigh the balance of thy crimes?
What widow or what orphan prays
To crown thy life with length of days?
A pious action’s in thy power;
Embrace with joy the happy hour.
Now, while you draw the vital air,
Prove your intention is sincere:
This instant give a hundred pounds;
Your neighbours want, and you abound.”
“But why such haste?” the Sick Man whines:
“Who knows as yet what Heaven designs?
Perhaps I may recover still;
That sum, and more, are in my will.”
“Fool,” says the Vision, “now ’tis plain,
Your life, your soul, your heaven was gain;
From every side, with all your might,
You scraped, and scraped beyond your right;
And after death would fain atone,
By giving what is not your own.”
“Where there is life there’s hope,” he cried;
“Then why such haste?” – so groaned, and died.
John Gay.
SANDYS’ GHOST
OR A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE NEW OVID’S METAMORPHOSES, AS IT WAS INTENDED TO BE TRANSLATED BY PERSONS OF QUALITY
YE Lords and Commons, men of wit
And pleasure about town,
Read this, ere you translate one bit
Of books of high renown.
Beware of Latin authors all!
Nor think your verses sterling,
Though with a golden pen you scrawl,
And scribble in a Berlin;
For not the desk with silver nails,
Nor bureau of expense,
Nor standish well japanned avails
To writing of good sense.
Hear how a ghost in dead of night,
With saucer eyes of fire,
In woful wise did sore affright
A wit and courtly squire.
Rare Imp of Phœbus, hopeful youth,
Like puppy tame that uses
To fetch and carry, in his mouth,
The works of all the Muses.
Ah, why did he write poetry,
That hereto was so civil,
And sell his soul for vanity,
To rhyming and the devil?
A desk he had of curious work,
With glittering studs about;
Within the same did Sandys lurk,
Though Ovid lay without.
Now, as he scratched to fetch up thought,
Forth popped the sprite so thin,
And from the key-hole bolted out,
All upright as a pin,
With whiskers, band, and pantaloon,
And ruff composed most duly.
The squire he dropped his pen full soon,
While as the light burnt bluely.
“Ho! Master Sam,” quoth Sandys’ sprite,
“Write on, nor let me scare ye;
Forsooth, if rhymes fall in not right,
To Budgell seek, or Carey.
“I hear the beat of Jacob’s drums;
Poor Ovid finds no quarter.
See first the merry P – comes
In haste, without his garter.
“Then lords and lordlings, squires and knights,
Wits, witlings, prigs, and peers;
Garth at St. James’s, and at White’s,
Beat up for volunteers.
“What Fenton will not do, nor Gay,
Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan,
Tom Burnett or Tom D’Urfey may,
John Dunton, Steele, or anyone.
“If Justice Philips’ costive head
Some frigid rhymes disburses,
They shall like Persian tales be read,
And glad both babes and nurses.
Другие электронные книги автора Carolyn Wells
Последний отзыв
Книга дельная. Без воды, приводятся реальные кейсы и способы их разрешения. Много практичных полезных советов и методик. Кое-что уже испробовала в дел...
Далее