| from "SATURA XIII" | from "SATIRE XIII" |
| Juvenal (Decimus Junius Juvenalis) | trans. John Quincy Adams |
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Exemplo quodcumque malo committitur, ipsi displicet auctori. prima est haec ultio, quod se iudice nemo nocens absoluitur, improba quamuis gratia fallaci praetoris uicerit urna. quid sentire putas homines, Caluine, recenti de scelere et fidei uiolatae crimine? sed nec tam tenuis census tibi contigit, ut mediocris iacturae te mergat onus, nec rara uidemus quae pateris: casus multis hic cognitus ac iam tritus et e medio fortunae ductus aceruo. ponamus nimios gemitus. flagrantior aequo non debet dolor esse uiri nec uolnere maior. tu quamuis leuium minimam exiguamque malorum particulam uix ferre potes spumantibus ardens uisceribus, sacrum tibi quod non reddat amicus depositum? stupet haec qui iam post terga reliquit sexaginta annos Fonteio consule natus? an nihil in melius tot rerum proficis usu? magna quidem, sacris quae dat praecepta libellis, uictrix fortunae sapientia, ducimus autem hos quoque felices, qui ferre incommoda uitae nec iactare iugum uita didicere magistra. quae tam festa dies, ut cesset prodere furem, perfidiam, fraudes atque omni ex crimine lucrum quaesitum et partos gladio uel pyxide nummos? rari quippe boni, numera, uix sunt totidem quot Thebarum portae uel diuitis ostia Nili. ..... ..... |
From Virtue's paths, when hapless men depart, The first avenger is the culprit's heart; There sits a judge, from whose severe decree No strength can rescue, and no speed can flee; A judge, unbiass'd by the quibbling tribe! A judge, whom India's treasures cannot bribe. Calvin, what thinkest thou the world will say, To see thy faithless friend his trust betray Yet, to thy fortune, is the breach but small; Thy purse will scarcely feel the loss at all; Nor are examples of such baseness rare! 'Tis what in common with thee thousands bear; A single drop of water from the deep! A single grain from fortune's boundless heap. Excessive sorrow let us then restrain: A man should measure by the wound his pain! Though keen thy sense, the smallest ill to meet, Must thy blood boil to find thy friend a cheat? The sacred trust committed he denies But, at thy age, can treachery surprise? When threescore winters thou hast left behind, To long experience art thou still so blind? Great, and prevailing is the sacred lore, Which Wisdom, Fortune's victress, has in store; But we consider likewise those as blest, Who meet the woes of life with placid breast; Bred in life's school, who bend beneath her sway, Nor from her yoke would draw their necks away. Is there a day so festive through the year, But frequent frauds and perfidies appear? A single day, but sees triumphant vice With lurking dagger, or with loaded dice? Small is the train who honor's path pursue; The friends of virtue are a chosen few So few, that gathering o'er the spacious earth A full collection of untainted worth, Scarce could you find a number, free from guile, To match the gates of Thebes, or mouths of Nile. ..... ..... |