Kath. Fie, fie! unknit that threatening unkind brow,
And dart not scornful glances from those eyes,
To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor :
It blots thy beauty as frosts do bite the meads,
Confounds thy fame as whirlwinds shake fair buds,
And in no sense is meet or amiable.
A woman mov'd is like a fountain troubled,
Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty;
And while it is so, none so dry or thirsty
Will deign to sip or touch one drop of it.
Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,
Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee,
And for thy maintenance commits his body
To painful labour both by sea and land,
To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,
Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe;
And craves no other tribute at thy hands
But love, fair looks, and true obedience;
Too little payment for so great a debt.
Οὐκ αἰσχρόν, ὦ γυναῖκες, ὀμμάτων ἄπο
τοιαῦτ ̓ ἀφεῖναι καρδίας τοξεύματα ;
ἄνδρας τ' ἀνιᾶν εὐμενεστάτους βροτῶν
ἄνακτας, ὑμῶν οἵπερ εἰσὶ κύριοι.
οὐκ ἴστε δὴ τὸ κάλλος οἷον ἐξαμά,
οὕτως ὅπως λειμῶνα δάπτουσιν πάγοι;
νέας δὲ βλάστας ἄνεμος ὡς συγχεῖ φέρων
καὶ τοῦτο λὰξ πατητόν εὔκλειαν φέρει.
οὐ γὰρ προσῆκόν ἐστιν οὐδ ̓ ἄρ ̓ εὐφιλές·
θυμούμεναι γάρ ἐσμεν ὡς κυκωμένη
πηγὴ γυναῖκες, βορβόρῳ μεμιγμένη
τὸ μήτε γεῦσαι μηδὲ δίψιόν τινα
μήτ' ἀξιῶσαι χείλεσιν θιγεῖν ἄκροις.
πῶς οὐ πόσεως χρὴ δούλιον φέρειν ζυγόν ;
ἄναξ ὅς ἐστι κύριός τε σώματος
φύλαξ τ' ἀφ ̓ οὗ δὴ πᾶς ἀπαρτᾶται βίος·
ὃς κήδεται σοῦ τῆς τε σῆς τροφῆς ἀεὶ
καὶ πολλὰ μὲν γῇ πολλὰ δ ̓ αὖ πόντου σάλῳ
νυκτός τε καὶ κατ ̓ ἦμαρ ἐξαντλεῖ κακὰ
ῥιγῶν πονῶν τε τοῦ χάριν; δόμων ἔσω
ὅπως σὺ ναίῃς μαλθακῶς ἐστρωμένη
ἀνθ' ὧν ἀπαιτεῖ μισθὸν οὐδὲν ἄλλο πλὴν
ἔρωτα, φαιδρὸν ὄμμα καὶ πειθαρχίαν
ὡς ἀντὶ παύρων πολλὰ κερδαίνεις, ὅρα.
So all night long upon the sandy shores
I heard the hollow murmur of the wave,
And all night long the hidden sea-caves made
A ghostly echo; and the sea-birds mewed
Around me; once I heard a mocking laugh
As of some scornful Nereid: once the waters
Broke louder on the scarped reefs, and ebbed
As if the monster coming: but again
He came not, and the dead moon sank, and still
Only upon the cliffs the wails, the chants,
And I forsaken on my sea-worn rock,
And lo, the monster haunted depths of sea.
Till at the dead dark hour before the dawn,
When sick men die, and scarcely fear itself
Bore up my weary eyelids, a great surge
Burst on the rock, and slowly, as it seemed,
The sea sucked downwards to its depths, laid bare
The hidden reefs, and then before my eyes ---
Oh terrible! a huge and loathsome snake
Lifted his dreadful crest and scaly side
Above the waves, in bulk and length so large,
Coil after hideous coil, that scarce the eye
Could measure its full horror; the great jaws
Dropped as with gore; the large and furious eyes
Were fired with blood and lust.
Sic intempesta, quam longa est, nocte per auris
litore harenoso mittunt cava murmura fluctus;
interea miris clamoribus antra resultant
abdita, nec mergi circum increbrescere questus
cessabat; semel et risus audire videbar
Nymphae inludentis: tum dorsa latentia saxis
unda ferit solito violentior, et cita retro
ut monstro veniente relabitur: ille per undas
haud aderat tamen, et caelo iam exhausta refugit
luna, sed in scopulis idem iam plangor et idem
cantus: me rupes, quam vis terit undique ponti,
sola tenet monstrisque horrentia marmora cingunt.
tum demum ante novos ortus, cum densior umbra,
mors ubi prompta aegris, cum vix mihi fessa retentat
lumina quin somno cedant timor, aspera saxo
scinditur unda, marisque in stagna extrema vorari
tota videbatur facies, et condita circum
saxa apparebant, visuque immane, trementis ante oculos subito serpens obscenus ab undis horrentis squamas atque ora minacia tollit. turpibus et spiris tam vasta volumina torquet ut mea vix omnes possint explere tuendo lumina terrores: visae manare cruorem immensae monstri fauces, oculique furentes sanguine ceu calidi saevaque libidine flagrant.
O lyric love, half-angel and half-bird
And all a wonder and a wild desire,-
Boldest of hearts that ever braved the sun,
Took sanctuary within the holier blue,
And sang a kindred soul out to his face,
Yet human at the red-ripe of the heart
When the first summons from the darkling earth Reached thee amid thy chambers, blanched their blue, And bared them of their glory-to drop down,
To toil for man, to suffer or to die,
This is the same voice: can thy soul know change?
Hail then, and hearken from the realms of help!
Never may I commence my song, my due
To God who best taught song by gift of thee,
Except with bent head and beseeching hand-
That still, despite the distance and the dark,
What was, again may be: some interchange
Of grace, some splendour once thy very thought,
Some benediction anciently thy smile:
-Never conclude, but raising hand and head
Thither where eyes, that cannot reach, yet yearn
For all hope, all sustainment, all reward,
Their utmost, up and on,- so blessing back
In those thy realms of help, that heaven thy home, Some whiteness which, I judge, thy face makes proud, Some wanness where, I think, thy foot may fall!
|