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Finally, we have another edition of this idea with a bit of satire at the end, which has been maliciously added by the translator:

Of Graces four, of Muses ten,

Of Venuses now two are seen;
Doris shines forth to dazzled men,

A Grace, a Muse, and Beauty's Queen; -
But let me whisper one thing more;
The Furies now are likewise four.

The faults and foibles of women, springing often so naturally from their innate wish to please, have not escaped such of the epigrammatists as were inclined to satire, and some of them are bitter enough. The first we give must have been occasioned by some irritating disappointment, or have sprung from an unworthy opinion of the sex. It is by our friend Palladas:

All wives are plagues; yet two blest times have they, -
Their bridal first, and then their burial day.

The others we give are less sweeping, and more directed against individual failings, particularly the desire to appear more beautiful or more youthful than the facts warranted. This is by Lucilius:

Chloe, those locks of raven hair,

Some people say you dye them black;
But that's a libel, I can swear,

For I know where you buy them black. Our next deals with a very systematic dyer and getter-up of artificial juvenility, who seems to have been her own Madame Rachel. The Greek is Lucian's, and the translation by Merivale. There is also one by Cowper, which will be found among his works :

Yes, you may dye your hair, but not your age,

Nor smooth, alas! the wrinkles of your face:
Yes, you may varnish o'er the telltale

And wear a mask for

grace. But there's an end. No Hecuba, by aid

Of rouge and ceruse, is a Helen made." The inactive habits of most of the Greek women are thought to have created a temptation to the use of these artificial modes of heightening the complexion, which would have been better

every vanished

effected by the natural pigments laid on by fresh air and exercise.

This is by Nicarchus, upon an old woman wishing to be married at rather an advanced period of life :

Niconoè has doubtless reached her prime:
Yes, for she did so in Deucalion's time.
We don't know as to that, but think her doom
Less fitted for a husband than a tomb.

This also is upon an old, or at least a plain woman, by Lucilius :

Gellia, your mirror's false; you could not bear,
If it were true, to see your image there.



(By Rufinus.)
You now salute me graciously, when gone
Your beauty's power, that once like marble shone;
You now look sweet, though forced to hide away
Those locks that o'er your proud neck used to stray.
Vain are your arts : your faded charms I scorn;
The rose now past, I care not for the thorn.



(By Rufinus.)
How long, hard Prodicè, am I to kneel,
And pray and whine, to move that breast of steel?
You e'en are getting gray, as much as I am;
We soon shall be — just Hecuba and Priam.

Deafness is an infirmity which is a proper object, not of ridicule, but of pity; but then the deaf person should not pretend to hear when he or she cannot, as was the case with the old lady now to be noticed :



Of all life's plagues I recommend to no man
To hire as a domestic a deaf woman.

I've got one who my orders does not hear,
Mishears them rather, and keeps blundering near.
Thirsty and hot, I asked her for a drink ;
She bustled out, and brought me back some ink.
Eating a good rump steak, I called for mustard;
Away she went, and whipped me up a custard.
I wanted with my chicken to have ham;
Blundering once more, she brought a pot of jam.
I wished in season for a cut of salmon,
And what she bought me was a huge fat gammon.
I can't my voice raise higher and still higher,
As if I were a herald or town-crier.
'Twould better be if she were deaf outright;
But anyhow she quits my house this night.

Those ladies - generally, of course, such as were advanced in life — who unblushingly betook themselves to the bottle, are an inevitable subject of satire. It has already been mentioned that even men were considered intemperate who drank wine without a large admixture of water; but apparently the female topers, having once broken bounds, took their wine unmixed.


This rudely sculptured Cup will show
Where gray Maronis lies below.
She talked, and drank strong unmixed stuff,
Both of them more than quantum suff.
She does not for her children grieve,
Nor their poor father grudge to leave;
It only vexes her to think
This drinking cup's not filled with drink.

The last couplet might be more literally translated thus :

But in the grave she scarcely can lie still,
To think, what Bacchus owns, she can't with Bacchus fill.

Love is sometimes treated of in a vein of pleasantry, very different from the deep and impassioned tone in which it is exhibited in more serious compositions. Take some amples :



(By Meleager.)
By Didyma's beauty I'm carried away;
I melt, when I see it, like wax before fire:
She is black, it is true: so are coals; but even they,
When they're warmed, a bright glow like the rose cup acquire.

This is by Archias, Cicero's friend and client, written perhaps to illustrate some piece of art :

What! fly from Love? vain hope: there's no retreat,
When he has wings and I have only feet.

This is by Crates, translated by Sayers, Southey's friend:


Hunger, perhaps, may cure your love

Or time your passion greatly alter:
If both should unsuccessful prove,

I strongly recommend a halter.


you do;

(By some said to be Plato's.)
To the Muses said Venus: “Maids, mind what
Honor me, or I'll set my boy Cupid on you."
Then to Venus the Muses : “ To Mars chatter thus:

Your urchin ne'er ventures to fly upon us.” The light and cheerful way in which poor men speak of their poverty is often pleasant. Here are some examples :

(By Julian : the translation by Wellesley.)
Seek a more profitable job,

Good housebreakers, elsewhere:
These premises you cannot rob,

Want guards them with such care.


(By Aristo.) O mice! if here you come for food, you'd better go elsewhere, For in this cabin, small and rude, you'll find but slender fare.

Go where you'll meet with good fat cheese, and sweet dried

tigs in plenty, Where even the scraps will yield with ease a banquet rich

and dainty: If to devour my books you come, you'll rue it, without question, And find them all, as I find some, of very hard digestion.

The folly of fools is a fair subject of ridicule. This is by Lucian :

A blockhead bit by fleas put out the light,

And chuckling cried, Now you can't see to bite. Here is something which the Greeks considered folly, by Lucian :

While others tippled, Sam from drinking shrunk,

Which made the rest think Sam alone was drunk. Without recommending excess, there are a good many invitations to jollity. Here is one:

Sober Eubulus, friends, lies here below:

So then, let's drink: to Hades all must go. What follows is a favorite sentiment - perhaps too much so with the old poets :

Wine to the poet is a winged steed;

Those who drink water come but little speed. One great poet has existed in our day who was a signal exception to this alleged rule.

The following is by the Emperor Julian, and refers to that substitute for wine which the Germans discovered by fermenting, or, as Tacitus calls it, corrupting, grain. It does not seem to have pleased the imperial wine drinker. The translation is necessarily paraphrastic :

Who? whence this, Bacchus ? for by Bacchus' self,
The son of Jove, I know not this strange elf.
The other smells like nectar: but thou here
Like the he-goat. Those wrctched Celts, I fear,
For want of grapes made thee of ears of corn.
Demetrius art thou, of Demeter born,
Not Bacchus, Dionysus, nor yet wine-
Those names but fit the products of the vine;
BEER thou mayst be from Barley; or, that failing,
We'll call thee Als, for thou wilt keep us ailing.

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