A trusty gossip, one dame Alison.
Full well the secrets of my soul she knew,
Better than e'er our parish Priest could do.
To her I told whatever could befall:
Had but my husband piss'd against a wall,
Or done a thing that might have cost his life,
She and my niece-and one more worthy wife,
Had known it all: what most he would conceal,
To these I made no scruple to reveal.
Oft has he blush'd from ear to ear for shame,
That e'er he told a secret to his dame.

It so befel, in holy time of Lent,
That oft a day I to this gossip went;
(My husband, thank my stars, was out of town)
From house to house we rambled up and down,
This clerk, myself, and my good neighbour Alse,
To see, be seen, to tell, and gather tales.
Visits to ev'ry Church we daily paid,
And march'd in ev'ry holy Masquerade,
The Stations duly, and the Vigils kept;
Not much we fasted, but scarce ever slept.

At Sermons too I shone in scarlet gay,

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The wasting moth ne'er spoil'd my best array;
The cause was this, I wore it ev'ry day.

'Twas when fresh May her early blossoms yields,

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That he, and only he, should serve my turn.

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We straight struck hands, the bargain was agreed;

I still have shifts against a time of need:

The mouse that always trusts to one poor hole,
Can never be a mouse of any soul.

I vow'd, I scarce could sleep since first I knew him

300

And durst be sworn he had bewitch'd me to him;

If e'er I slept, I dream'd of him alone,

And dreams foretell, as learned men have shown:

All this I said; but dream, sirs, I had none:

I follow'd but my crafty Crony's lore,
Who bid me tell this lie-and twenty more.

305

Thus day by day, and month by month we past;

It pleas'd the Lord to take my spouse at last.

I tore my gown, I soil'd my locks with dust,
And beat my breasts, as wretched widows-must.
Before my face my handkerchief I spread,
To hide the flood of tears I did not shed.
The good man's coffin to the Church was borne;
Around, the neighbours, and my clerk too, mourn.
But as he march'd, good Gods! he show'd a pair
Of legs and feet, so clean, so strong, so fair!
Of twenty winters age he seem'd to be;

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I (to say truth) was twenty more than he;
But vig'rous still, a lively buxom dame;
And had a wond'rous gift to quench a flame.
A Conj'rer once, that deeply could divine,
Assur'd me, Mars in Taurus was my sign.
As the stars order'd, such my life has been:
Alas, alas, that ever love was sin!
Fair Venus gave me fire, and sprightly grace,
And Mars assurance, and a dauntless face.
By virtue of this pow'rful constellation,
I follow'd always my own inclination.

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But to my tale: A month scarce pass'd away, With dance and song we kept the nuptial day. All I possess'd I gave to his command,

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My goods and chattels, money, house, and land:
But oft repented, and repent it still;
He prov'd a rebel to my sovereign will:
Nay once by heav'n he struck me on the face;

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Hear but the fact, and judge yourselves the case.
Stubborn as any Lioness was I;

And knew full well to raise my voice on high;
As true a rambler as I was before,

And would be so in spite of all he swore.

340

He against this right sagely would advise,
And old examples set before my eyes,
Tell how the Roman matrons led their life,
Of Gracchus' mother and Duilius' wife;
And chose the sermon, as beseem'd his wit,
With some grave sentence out of holy writ.

345

Oft would he say, who builds his house on sands,
Pricks his blind horse across the fallow lands,
Or lets his wife abroad with pilgrims roam,
Deserves a fool's-cap and long ears at home.
All this avail'd not; for whoe'er he be
That tells my faults, I hate him mortally:
And so do numbers more, I'll boldly say,

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Men, women, clergy, regular, and lay.

My spouse, (who was, you know, to learning bred)

355

A certain treatise oft at ev'ning read,

Where divers Authors (whom the dev'l confound

For all their lies) were in one volume bound.
Valerius, whole; and of St. Jerome, part;
Chrysippus and Tertullian, Ovid's Art,
Solomon's proverbs, Eloïsa's loves;

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And many more than sure the Church approves.

More legends were there here of wicked wives,

Than good in all the Bible and Saints-lives.
Who drew the Lion vanquish'd? 'Twas a Man.
But could we women write as scholars can,
Men should stand mark'd with far more wickedness,
Than all the sons of Adam could redress.

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Love seldom haunts the breast where Learning lies,

And Venus sets ere Mercury can rise.
Those play the scholars who can't play the men,
And use that weapon which they have, their pen;
When old, and past the relish of delight,
Then down they sit, and in their dotage write,
That not one woman keeps her marriage-vow.
(This by the way, but to my purpose now.)

It chanc'd my husband, on a winter's night,
Read in this book, aloud, with strange delight,
How the first female (as the Scriptures show)
Brought her own spouse and all his race to woe.
How Samson fell; and he whom Dejanire
Wrapp'd in th' envenom'd shirt, and set on fire.
How curs'd Eryphile her lord betray'd,
And the dire ambush Clytemnestra laid.

But what most pleas'd him was the Cretan dame,
And husband-bull-oh monstrous! fie for shame!
He had by heart, the whole detail of woe
Xanthippe made her good man undergo;
How oft she scolded in a day, he knew,
How many piss-pots on the sage she threw ;
Who took it patiently, and wip'd his head;
"Rain follows thunder," that was all he said.
He read, how Arius to his friend complain'd,
A fatal Tree was growing in his land,
On which three wives successively had twin'd
A sliding noose, and waver'd in the wind.

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"Where grows this plant" (reply'd the friend) "oh where?

The nimble juice soon seiz'd his giddy head,
Frantic at night, and in the morning dead.

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How some with swords their sleeping lords have slain, And some have hammer'd nails into their brain,

And some have drench'd them with a deadly potion;

All this he read, and read with great devotion.

410

Long time I heard, and swell'd and blush'd, and frown'd'

But when no end of these vile tales I found,
When still he read, and laugh'd, and read again,
And half the night was thus consum'd in vain;
Provok'd to vengeance, three large leaves I tore
And with one buffet fell'd him on the floor.
With that my husband in a fury rose,
And down he settled me with hearty blows.
I groan'd, and lay extended on my side;

415

"Oh! thou hast slain me for my wealth" (I cry'd) "Yet I forgive thee-take my last embrace-"

420

He wept, kind soul! and stoop'd to kiss my face;
I took him such a box as turn'd him blue,
Then sigh'd and cry'd, "Adieu, my dear, adieu!"
But after many a hearty struggle past,

}

I condescended to be pleas'd at last.
Soon as he said, "My mistress and my wife,
Do what you list, the term of all your life:"
I took to heart the merits of the cause,
And stood content to rule by wholesome laws;
Receiv'd the reins of absolute command,
With all the government of house and land,
And empire o'er his tongue, and o'er his hand.
As for the volume that revil'd the dames,
'Twas torn to fragments, and condemn'd to flames.
Now heav'n on all my husbands gone bestow
Pleasures above, for tortures felt below:
That rest they wish'd for, grant them in the grave,
And bless those souls my conduct help'd to save.

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THE FIRST BOOK

OF

STATIUS HIS THEBAIS.

Translated in the Year 1703.

[The First Book of the Thebais of Statius was published in 1712, in Lintot's Miscellany. Pope had tried his hand at translating part of Statius before he was twelve years of age; and his efforts were revised by his early friend Henry Cromwell, so mysteriously described by Gay in Alexander Pope his safe return from Troy as 'honest hatless Cromwell, with red breeches.'-P. Papinius Statius, born at Naples about 50 A.D. was the most popular poet of the Flavian epoch, and besides his epics, the Thebais (in 12 books) and the Achilleis (in 2), wrote the Sylva (5 books of occasional pieces). Of his Thebais, said to have been founded on the Greek poem by Antimachus, a criticism will be found in Merivale's Romans under the Empire, chap. LXIV., where it is designated as perhaps the most perfect in form and arrangement of ancient epics, but confused in its general effect from want of breadth and largeness of treatment.]

ARGUMENT.

EDIPUS King of Thebes having by mistake slain his father Laius, and marry'd his mother Jocasta, put out his own eyes, and resign'd the realm to his sons Eteocles and Polynices. Being neglected by them, he makes his prayer to the fury Tisiphone, to sow debate betwixt the brothers. They agree at last to reign singly, each a year by turns, and the first lot is obtain❜d by Eteocles. Jupiter, in a council of the Gods, declares his resolution of punishing the Thebans, and Argives also by means of a marriage betwixt Polynices and one of the daughters of Adrastus King of Argos. Juno opposes, but to no effect; and Mercury is sent on a message

to the shades, to the ghost of Laius, who is to appear to Eteocles, and provoke him to break the agreement. Polynices in the mean time departs from Thebes by night, is overtaken by a storm, and arrives at Argos; where he meets with Tydeus, who had fled from Calydon, having kill'd his brother. Adrastus entertains them, having receiv'd an oracle from Apollo that his daughter should be marry'd to a Boar and a Lion, which he understands to be meant of these strangers by whom the hides of those beasts were worn, and who arriv'd at the time when he kept an annual feast in honour of that God. The rise of this solemnity he relates to his guests, the loves of Phoebus and Psamathe, and the story of Choroebus. He enquires, and is made acquainted with that descent and quality: The sacrifice is renew'd, and the book concludes with a Hymn to Apollo.

The Translator hopes he needs not apologize for his Choice of this piece, which Iwas made almost in his Childhood. But finding the Version better than he ex

pected, he gave it some Correction a few years afterwards. P.

RATERNAL Rage the guilty Thebes alarms,
Th' alternate reign destroy'd by impious arms

Demand our song; a sacred fury fires

My ravish'd breast, and all the Muse inspires.
O goddess! say, shall I deduce my rhymes
From the dire nation in its early times,
Europa's rape, Agenor's stern decree,

And Cadmus searching round the spacious sea?
How with the serpent's teeth he sow'd the soil,
And reap'd an iron harvest of his toil;
Or how from joining stones the city sprung,
While to his harp divine Amphion sung?
Or shall I Juno's hate to Thebes resound,
Whose fatal rage th' unhappy Monarch found?
The sire against the son his arrows drew,
O'er the wide fields the furious mother flew,
And while her arms a second hope contain,
Sprung from the rocks, and plung'd into the main.
But waive whate'er to Cadmus may belong,

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And fix, O Muse! the barrier of thy song

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At Edipus-from his disasters trace

The long confusions of his guilty race:

Nor yet attempt to stretch thy bolder wing,

[The Emperor Domitian seems to have assumed the title of Dacicus in virtue of victories in which he had no personal share.]