Epigrams
To a Critic.
Thy foolish criticism
On the plays composed by me
Wounds not my egotism;
But a sore, indeed, ’t would be,
Should they be praised by thee.
Leandro Fernandez de Moratin, 1760-1828.
To a Translator of the Æneid.
In bad Spanish great Vergil
You dare to asperse.
And tell us most closely
You follow his verse:
If to imitate Maro
Is your real intent,
Pray will it’s to burn
By your last testament.
The mother of young Cupid,
Once her baby sleepless lay,
Fearful lest the child should perish,
Weeping loud in her dismay,
Quickly to the gods repair’d.
Grave Morpheus took it in his care,
Laid it in the bed of Hymen,—
In a trice it slumber’d there.
Love, Morpheus, and I
Shared a maiden fair;
Love took her heart
As his due share,
And Morpheus liked
Her sweet eyes best
So I for myself
Claimed all the rest.
The Devil tried hard
Job’s faith to impair,
Loss of property, children,
And health he’d to bear,
But failing to tempt him
To curse his own life,
To make him despair
He left him his wife.
A Mathematician,
García by name.
Was thus sadly address’d
By the wife of the same:
How is’t you acquir’d
Such a great reputation
And are so behindhand
In Multiplication?
Pablo de Jérica.
The Sun-dial.
A sun-dial was made by some natives near Quito,
Who thought it so fine (in Spanish “bonito”),
They put up a roof to protect it from rain,
Saying, “We never shall have such a sun-dial again.”
But of use it was none, since the roof hid the sun.
And I said in my heart, ’tis a nice counterpart
Of good laws for our weal
Spoil’d by fools’ silly zeal!
J. E. Hartzenbusch, 1806-1880.