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A Satire Anthology
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Год написания книги
2017
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Till the Bithynian’s morning nap be out.
Nor swords, nor spears, nor stones from engines hurled,
Shall quell the man whose frowns alarmed the world.
The vengeance due to Cannæ’s fatal field,
And floods of human gore, a ring shall yield!
Go, madman, go! at toil and danger mock,
Pierce the deep snow, and scale the eternal rock,
To please the rhetoricians, and become
A declamation for the boys of Rome.
Juvenal.
THE ASS’S LEGACY
A PRIEST there was, in times of old,
Fond of his church, but fonder of his gold,
Who spent his days, and all his thought,
In getting what he preached was naught.
His chests were full of robes and stuff;
Corn filled his garners to the roof,
Stored up against the fair-times gay
From St. Rémy to Easter day.
An ass he had within his stable,
A beast most sound and valuable;
For twenty years he lent his strength
For the priest, his master, till at length,
Worn out with work and age, he died.
The priest, who loved him, wept and cried;
And, for his service long and hard,
Buried him in his own churchyard.
Now turn we to another thing:
’Tis of a bishop that I sing.
No greedy miser he, I ween;
Prelate so generous ne’er was seen.
Full well he loved in company
Of all good Christians still to be;
When he was well, his pleasure still;
His medicine best when he was ill.
Always his hall was full, and there
His guests had ever best of fare.
Whate’er the bishop lacked or lost,
Was bought at once, despite the cost.
And so, in spite of vent and score,
The bishop’s debts grew more and more.
For true it is – this ne’er forget —
Who spends too much gets into debt.
One day his friends all with him sat,
The bishop talking this and that,
Till the discourse on rich clerks ran,
Of greedy priests, and how their plan
Was all good bishops still to grieve,
And of their dues their lords deceive.
And then the priest of whom I’ve told
Was mentioned – how he loved his gold.
And, because men do often use
More freedom than the truth would choose,
They gave him wealth, and wealth so much,
As those like him could scarcely touch.
“And then, besides, a thing he’s done
By which great profit might be won,
Could it be only spoken here.”
Quoth the bishop, “Tell it without fear.”
“He’s worse, my lord, than Bedouin,
Because his own dead ass, Baldwin,
He buried in the sacred ground.”
“If this is truth, as shall be found,”
The bishop cried, “a forfeit high
Will on his worldly riches lie.
Summon this wicked priest to me;
I will myself in this case be
The judge. If Robert’s word be true,
Mine are the fine, and forfeit too.”
“Disloyal! God’s enemy and mine,
Prepare to pay a heavy fine.
Thy ass thou buriest in the place
Sacred by church. Now, by God’s grace,
I never heard of crime more great.
What! Christian men with asses wait!
Now, if this thing be proven, know
Surely to prison thou wilt go.”
“Sir,” said the priest, “thy patience grant;
A short delay is all I want.
Not that I fear to answer now,
But give me what the laws allow.”
And so the bishop leaves the priest,
Who does not feel as if at feast;
But still, because one friend remains,
He trembles not at prison pains.
His purse it is which never fails
For tax or forfeit, fine or vails.
The term arrived, the priest appeared,
And met the bishop, nothing feared;
For ’neath his girdle safe there hung
A leathern purse, well stocked and strung
Nor swords, nor spears, nor stones from engines hurled,
Shall quell the man whose frowns alarmed the world.
The vengeance due to Cannæ’s fatal field,
And floods of human gore, a ring shall yield!
Go, madman, go! at toil and danger mock,
Pierce the deep snow, and scale the eternal rock,
To please the rhetoricians, and become
A declamation for the boys of Rome.
Juvenal.
THE ASS’S LEGACY
A PRIEST there was, in times of old,
Fond of his church, but fonder of his gold,
Who spent his days, and all his thought,
In getting what he preached was naught.
His chests were full of robes and stuff;
Corn filled his garners to the roof,
Stored up against the fair-times gay
From St. Rémy to Easter day.
An ass he had within his stable,
A beast most sound and valuable;
For twenty years he lent his strength
For the priest, his master, till at length,
Worn out with work and age, he died.
The priest, who loved him, wept and cried;
And, for his service long and hard,
Buried him in his own churchyard.
Now turn we to another thing:
’Tis of a bishop that I sing.
No greedy miser he, I ween;
Prelate so generous ne’er was seen.
Full well he loved in company
Of all good Christians still to be;
When he was well, his pleasure still;
His medicine best when he was ill.
Always his hall was full, and there
His guests had ever best of fare.
Whate’er the bishop lacked or lost,
Was bought at once, despite the cost.
And so, in spite of vent and score,
The bishop’s debts grew more and more.
For true it is – this ne’er forget —
Who spends too much gets into debt.
One day his friends all with him sat,
The bishop talking this and that,
Till the discourse on rich clerks ran,
Of greedy priests, and how their plan
Was all good bishops still to grieve,
And of their dues their lords deceive.
And then the priest of whom I’ve told
Was mentioned – how he loved his gold.
And, because men do often use
More freedom than the truth would choose,
They gave him wealth, and wealth so much,
As those like him could scarcely touch.
“And then, besides, a thing he’s done
By which great profit might be won,
Could it be only spoken here.”
Quoth the bishop, “Tell it without fear.”
“He’s worse, my lord, than Bedouin,
Because his own dead ass, Baldwin,
He buried in the sacred ground.”
“If this is truth, as shall be found,”
The bishop cried, “a forfeit high
Will on his worldly riches lie.
Summon this wicked priest to me;
I will myself in this case be
The judge. If Robert’s word be true,
Mine are the fine, and forfeit too.”
“Disloyal! God’s enemy and mine,
Prepare to pay a heavy fine.
Thy ass thou buriest in the place
Sacred by church. Now, by God’s grace,
I never heard of crime more great.
What! Christian men with asses wait!
Now, if this thing be proven, know
Surely to prison thou wilt go.”
“Sir,” said the priest, “thy patience grant;
A short delay is all I want.
Not that I fear to answer now,
But give me what the laws allow.”
And so the bishop leaves the priest,
Who does not feel as if at feast;
But still, because one friend remains,
He trembles not at prison pains.
His purse it is which never fails
For tax or forfeit, fine or vails.
The term arrived, the priest appeared,
And met the bishop, nothing feared;
For ’neath his girdle safe there hung
A leathern purse, well stocked and strung
Другие электронные книги автора Carolyn Wells
Последний отзыв
Так получилось, что книга ко мне попала в тяжелый эмоциональный кризис и многое мне дала. Написано актуально, тут многих полезных вещей, никакого злоу...
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