The Love Epistles of Aristaenetus, by Nathaniel B. Halhed

That's French for "the ancient system," as in the ancient system of feudal privileges and the exercise of autocratic power over the peasants. The ancien regime never goes away, like vampires and dinosaur bones they are always hidden in the earth, exercising a mysterious influence. It is not paranoia to believe that the elites scheme against the common man. Inform yourself about their schemes here.

Re: The Love Epistles of Aristaenetus, by Nathaniel B. Halhe

Postby admin » Tue Mar 09, 2021 5:34 am

[Epistle ix.] contains the stratagem of a lady who wanted to speak to her lover in the presence of her husband and servants.]



A Lady walking in the street
Her lover lately chanc'd to meet:
But dar'd not speak when he came nigh.
Nor make a sign, nor wink her eye.
Lest watchful spouse should see or hear:—
And servants too were in the rear.—
A plea she sought to stop his walk,
To touch his hand, to hear him talk:
A plea she sought, nor sought in vain:
A lucky scheme inspir'd her brain.
Just as they met, she feign'd to trip.
And sprain her ancle in the slip.
The lover ready at his cue,
Suspected what she had in view;
And as he pass'd at little distance,
Officious ran to her assistance.
Contrived her slender waist to seize.
And catch her snowy hand in his.
With unexpected raptures fill'd.
Thro' all their veins Love instant thrill'd;
Their limbs were palsied with delight.
Which seem'd the trembling caus'd by fright.
Feigning condolance, he drew near
And spoke his passion in her ear:
While she to act the real strain,
Affects to writhe and twist with pain:
A well-concerted plan to kiss
The hand her lover touch'd with his:
Then, looking amorously sly.
She put it to her jetty eye;  
But rubb'd in vain to force a tear
Might seem the genuine fruits of fear.
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Re: The Love Epistles of Aristaenetus, by Nathaniel B. Halhe

Postby admin » Tue Mar 09, 2021 6:24 am

[Epistle x.] This is an epistolary narration of the loves of Acontius and Cydippe. -- Acontius was a youth of the isle of Cea, who going to Delos during the solemnities of Diana, fell in love with Cydippe; and being inferior to her in wealth and rank, he there practised the deceit which is the subject of this epistle. We find the story in Ovid.]




LONG buffetted by adverse fate.
The victim of Diana's hate,
At last the blest Acontius led
Cydippe to the bridal bed.
Ne'er had been form'd by Nature's care
So lovely, so complete a pair.

[And truth &c. -- [x]]

And truth to that belief gave rise.
That similarities so nice,
By destiny's impulsive act
Each other mutually attract.
On fair Cydippe, Beauty's queen
Had lavish'd all her magazine:

[From all her charms, &c.-- Homer tells us of this magic girdle belonging to Venus: which made the person who wore it the object of universal love, and which Juno once borrowed to deceive Jupiter.]

From all her charms the magic cest
Reserv'd, and freely gave the rest:
That ceft, not fit for mortal bodies.
Her own prerogative as goddess;
And but for which distinction, no man
Could know th' immortal from the woman.
In three, like Hesiod, to comprise
The graces sparkling in her eyes.
Were idle: since to count them all,
A thousand were a sum too small.
Nor were his eyes devoid of light.
Bold and yet modest, sweet tho' bright:
Whilst health and glowing vigour spread
His downy cheek with native red.
Numbers from ev'ry quarter ran
To see this master-piece of man:
Crouds at the Forum might you meet;
— And if he did but cross the street,
Th' applauding train his steps pursu'd.
And prais'd and wonder'd as they view'd.
Such was th' accomplish'd youth, whose breast
The fair Cydippe robb'd of rest.
And 'twas but justice, that the swain
For whom so many sigh'd in vain.
Should feel how exquisite the smart
That rankles in a lover's heart.—
So Cupid, throwing to the ground
His shafts that tickle while they wound,
Aim'd at the youth with all his strength
An arrow of a wond'rous length:
His aim, alas! was all too true: --
Quick to its goal the weapon flew.—
But when Acontius felt the blow,
What language can express his woe?

[The fair one's heart, &c. -- Aut ego figaeos repetam te conjuge portus; Aut ego Taenaria contegar exul humo'. -- OVID.]

The fair one's heart he vow'd to move.
Or end at once his life and love.
While he who shot so keen a dart.
The god of stratagem and art,
Aw'd haply by his graceful mien,
Fraught him with wiles the fair to win.
Thus while at Dian's hallow'd fane,
Cydippe join'd the maiden train:
Tow'rds her attendant's feet he roll'd
(Inscrib'd with characters of gold)
An apple of Cydonian stem:
(Love's garden rais'd the budding gem.)
The girl immediate seiz'd the prize,
Admir'd its colour and its size:
Much wond'ring from what virgin's zone
So fair a pris'ner could have flown.
' 'Tis sure,' said she, 'a fruit divine;
'But then, what means this mystic line?
'Cydippe, see, just now I found
'This apple; view how large, how round:
'See, how it shames the rose's bloom:
'And smell its exquisite perfume.
'And, dearest mistress, tell me, pray,
'The meaning which these words convey?'
The blushing fruit Cydippe ey'd,
Then read th' inscription on its side. --
'By chaste Diana's sacred head,
'I swear I will Acontius wed.'
Thus vow'd she at the hallow'd shrine,
Tho' rashly, tho' without design;
And utter'd not for modest dread
The last emphatic word, to wed.

[Which but to hear, &c. -- Nomine conjugii dicto, confusa pudore ; Sensi me totis erubuisse genis. -- OVID.]

Which but to hear, much more to speak,
With blushes paints a virgin's cheek.
Ah! cries the half-distracted fair,
'Diana sure has heard me swear:
'Yes, favour'd youth, without dispute
'She has assented to thy suit.' --

He the meanwhile from day to day
In ceaseless anguish pin'd away.—
His tears usurp'd the place of sleep;
For shame forbad all day to weep.
Sickly and thin his body grew:
His cheeks had lost their ruddy hue.
Thousand pretences would he feign.
To loiter on the lonely plain:
Striving most eagerly to fly
The keenness of his father's eye.
Oft with the morn's first beam he'd leave
His tear-bath'd couch; and to deceive
His friend's concern, some untouch'd book,
As studious bent, the lover took:
Then to the grove, the peaceful grove.
Where silence yields full scope to love.
Thus from their hard attention freed.
He wept unsought, yet seem'd to read.
Thither if chance his father drew.
And bared the wand'rer to his view.
Knowledge he thought the stripling's aim,
A laudable desire for same;
And ev'ry sigh his sorrow brought.
The old man construed into thought;
Or if he wept,— as tears would flow,—
He only wept at others woe.

Still too, when pleasant evening came.
And others sought the frolic game.
Still was his wont to shun the feast.
To feign that angling pleas'd him best;—
Then busy with his rod and hook,
He sought some solitary brook. --
But ye were safe, ye finny brood.
And safely stemm'd your native flood;
Secure around his float to glide.
And dash th' unbaited hook aside.

Yet still 'twas solitude! and he
Must give his solitude a plea:
Besides, the posture pleas'd, for grief
In humblest postures finds relief:
True love the suppliants bend will please.
And sorrow unrestrain'd is ease.
His friends, who found he fled the town,
Concluded him a farmer grown;
And call'd him, in derision pleasant,
Laertes, or the new made peasant.—
But he, sad lover, little made
The vines his care, or ply'd the spade;
Little he cared how sped the bower.
And little mark'd the drooping flower.
But wand'ring through the bushy brake,
Thus in bewilder'd accents spake,
'O! that each pine, and spreading beech
'Were blest with Reason and with Speech!
'So might they evermore declare
'Cydippe fairest of the fair.
'At least, ye thickets, will I mark
'Her lovely name upon your bark.
'O dear inspirer of my pain,
'Let not thy oath be sworn in vain:
'Let not the goddess find that thou
'Hast dar'd to falsify a vow.
With vengeance ev'ry crime she threats,  
But never perjury forgets. -- 'Yet, not on thee the fatal meed. --
' 'Tis I, who caus'd thy crime, should bleed.—
'On me then, Dian, vent thine ire,
'And let her crime with me expire.
'But tell me, lofty groves, O tell
'Ye feats where feather'd warblers dwell,
'Can Love your knotty bosoms reach,
'And burns the cypress for the beech?
'Ah— no— ye never feel the smart;
'Ne'er Cupid pierc'd that stubborn heart.
'Think ye, your worthless leaves, ye trees,
'His mighty anger could appease?
' -- No— silly woods! his ample fire,
'Above your branches could aspire;
'Upon the very trunk would prey,
'And burn your hardest root away.'

Meantime, a happier lover's arms
Prepar'd to clasp Cydippis charms.
Already had the virgin throng
Attun'd their Hymeneal song—
'Strike ye now the golden lyre,
'Modulate the vocal choir'--
But hark! — what horrid shrieks arise?
Cydippe faints -- Cydippe dies.
The bridal pomp, alas! is fled;
Funeral sounds are heard instead. —
Yet soft — she lives — she breathes again,
'Louder raise the nuptial strain.'
A second time the fever burns:
A second time her health returns.
Again the marriage torches blaze—
Again Cydippe's bloom decays.
No longer will her fire await
The fourth avenging stroke of fate;
But of the Pythian shrine demands.
What God oppos'd the nuptial bands?
Phoebus at once reveal'd the truth.
The vow, the apple, and the youth.—
Told him, her oath the maid must keep,
Or ne'er would Dian's vengeance sleep.
Then added thus the god, 'Whene'er
'Aconttus gains the blooming fair:
'Not silver shall be join'd with lead—
'But gold the purest gold shall wed.'
So spoke the shrine divinely skill'd --
Cydippe soon her vow fulfill'd:
No clouds of sickness intervene
To darken the delightful scene.—
While striking with directive hand,
A virgin led the choral band;
Attentive to each warbling throat,
She chided each discordant note.
Others their hands applausive beat,
Like cymbals sounding as they meet.

But ill Acontius brook'd their noise—
He sigh'd for more substantial joys.  
Ne'er had he seen so long a day:
Night never pass'd so quick away.
The sun had gain'd its summit, e'er
Acontius left the rifled fair:
But first her cheek he kiss'd, whilst she
Dissembled sleep thro' modesty; --
But well her tell-tale blushes spake
The conscious nymph was still awake.
Alone at length, she rais'd her head
And blushing view'd the bridal bed;
Then with chaste rapture, hanging o'er
The place Acontius press'd before,
'Protect, ye powers divine, she said,
'Protect the wife, who led the maid;
'And O! be doubly kind to him
'Who must be now Cydippe's theme,

'And thou, chaste Hymen, who dost guide
'The steps of each untainted bride,
'Teach me what fits I should be taught,
'Nor let me wander e'en in thought.
'So may your altars ever burn,
'So may each day like this return;
'And ev'ry night' -- Speak, trifler, speak,—
Whence virgin blushes on thy cheek?
'And ev'ry night'— she hung her head --
Be crown'd like this, she -- would have said.  
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Re: The Love Epistles of Aristaenetus, by Nathaniel B. Halhe

Postby admin » Wed Mar 10, 2021 4:49 am

[Epistle xi. -- A Lady enquires whether the man she loved was really beautiful; her maid flatters, and assures her of it.]





A Lady thus her maid address'd. —
'Like you the beauteous youth,
'On whom I doat, in whom I'm blest,
'I charge you, tell me truth.


'Or is't my love that paints him fair,
'And all my fancy warms?
'For lovers oft deceived are,
'And prize ideal charms.

'But say, the swain whom I admire.
'Do other women praise?
'Do they behold him with desire,
'Or view with scornful gaze?'


The girl replied, who saw her cue.
Deep learn'd in flatt'ry's lore,
'They all is beauty praise with you,
'With you they all adore.


''Behold," they cry, ''that form divine
''The sculptor's art should trace,
"To bid the bust ...

[To bid the bust, &c. -- The ancient sculptors used to copy the face of Hermes or Mercury from that of Alcibiades, who was reckoned the most beautiful model: 'but now,' says the maid, 'women think your lover superior to him.']

of Hermes shine
"With ev'ry manly grace."  


'I've heard them praise his arched nose,
'And praise his auburn hair;
'That spreading o'er his forehead grows
'To make his face more fair.


'I've heard them praise his stature high,
'And praise his manly sense;
'I've heard them praise! — and sure, thought I,
''Tis Love gives eloquence.


'His very dress has merit too,
'Where taste with art agrees:
'For tho' it is not always new,
'It never fails to please.—


[Blest will, &c. -- Ergo mecastor, pulcher est, inquit mihi; Et liberalis. Vide caesaries quam decet; Nae illae font fortunatae quae cum illo, &c. -- Plautus Milite.]

"Blest," will they say, "thrice blest the fair
''For whom his heart shall burn:
''Who shall a mutual ardour share,
''And all his love return.


'On her the Graces sure have smil'd
"With most propitious eye."
'Thus the whole sex with passion wild
'For the same object sigh.'


But while the crafty maid arrang'd
His charms in fairest light:
Full oft the lady's colour chang'd
With raptures exquisite.

Convinc'd his grace was not ideal
Which all her sex could sire.
For women know that beauty real.
When all who see, admire.
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Re: The Love Epistles of Aristaenetus, by Nathaniel B. Halhe

Postby admin » Thu Mar 11, 2021 2:14 am

[Epistle xii. -- A lover here summons all the judges of beauty to decide in favour of his mistress. The libertine digression with which it concludes must be morally interpreted, as meant to show into what extravagance a man may be led by an attachment, whose foundation is in vice.]




HITHER, ye travellers who've known
The beauties of the eastern zone.
Or those who sparkle in the west:
Hither— O tell, and truly tell.
That few can equal, none excel
The fair who captivates my breast.


Survey her in whatever light--
New beauties still engage your sight:
Nor does a single fault appear.
Momus might search, and search again,
But all his searches would be vain.
To find occasion for a sneer.


Her height, her shape -- 'tis all complete;
And e'en remarkable her feet
For taper size, genteelly slim.—
And little feet each lover knows
Impart a striking charm to those
Who boast no other graceful limb.  


But not her beauties only strike—
Her pleasing manners too I like:
From these new strength my passion gains,
for tho' her chastity be gone.
She deals deceitfully by none;
And still some modesty remains.


And still may Pythias make pretence
To something much like innocence.
Which forges all my chains to last:
Whate'er you give, she turns to praise:
Unlike the harlot's odious ways,
Who sneers at presents e'er so vast.


We like two thrushes on a spray,
Together fit, together play;
But telling would our pleasures wrong.

[Suffice it, &c. -- Quae cum ita pugnaret tanquam quae vincere nollet, Victa est non aegre proditione fua. -- Ovid.]

—Suffice it, Pythias will oppose
My wanton passion, till it grows
By opposition doubly strong.


Her neck ambrosial sweets exhales;
Her kisses like Arabian gales
The scent of musky flowers impart.
And I reclining on her breast.
In slumbers, happy slumbers rest,
Rock'd by the beating of her heart!


Oft have I heard the vulgar say.
That absence makes our love decay,
And friends are friends but while in view:
But absence kindles my desire;
It adds fresh fuel to the fire
Which keeps my heart for ever true.


And O! may Fate my thanks receive,
In that it forc'd me not to leave
The fair in whom my soul is plac'd.--

[With truth, &c. -- [x] -- Hom. Il. [x].]

With truth my case did Homer write;
For ev'ry time with new delight
My oft repeated joys I taste.


Sure this is joy —true native joy!
Which malice never can destroy,
Nor holy shackled fools receive.

Free joys! which from ourselves must flow;
Such as free souls alone can know
And unchain'd Love alone can give.


But say, ye prudes! ye worthless tribe!
Who swear no gifts could ever bribe
Your hearts sweet virtue to forsake—
What is this treasure which ye boast?
Ye vaunt because you have not lost
—What none had charity to take.


Myrina carries on her back
An antidote to Love's attack;
Yet still at Pythias will she sneer.
And as my love is passing by,
Chrysis distorts her single eye
With looks of scorn, and virtuous fear.


Philinna scoffs at Pythias too,
—Yet she is handsome it is true:--
But then her heart's a heart of steel;
Incapable of all desire.
She ridicules Love's sacred fire.
And mocks the joys she cannot feel.


Yet this is Virtue! woman's pride!
From which if once she step aside.
Her peace, her fame's for ever gone!
—Away! 'tis impious satyr says
That woman's good, and woman's praise
Consist in chastity alone.


Can one short hour of native joy
Nature's inherent good destroy?
And pluck all feeling from within?
Since man seems formed to deceive.
Is to have passions,— and believe,
So very, very great a sin?


Did gentle Pity never move
The heart once led astray by Love?
Was Poverty ne'er made its care?
Did Gratitude ne'er warm the breast
Where guilty joy was held a guest?
Was Charity ne'er harbour'd there?


Does coy Sincerity disclaim
The neighb'rhood of a lawless flame?
Does Truth with fame and fortune fall?
Does ev'ry tim'rous virtue fly
With that cold thing— call'd Chastity?
—And has my Pythias lost them all?

No! No! — In thee my life, my soul,
I swear I can comprise the whole
Of all that's good as well as fair;
And tho' thou'st lost what fools call Fame,
Tho' branded with a harlot's name.
To me thou shalt be doubly dear.


Then whence these fetters for desire?
Who made these laws for Cupid's fire?
Why is their rigour so uncommon?
Why is this honour-giving plan
So much extoll'd by tyrant man.
Yet binding only to poor woman?


Search not in Nature for the cause: —
Nature disclaims such partial laws.
'Tis all a creature of th' imagination;
By frozen prudes invented first,
Or hags with ugliness accurst--
A phantom of our own creation!


Two classes thus my Pythias, shew
Their insolence to scoff at you:
First— they who've passions giv'n by Nature;
But as the task of fame is hard,
They've blest Deformity to guard
Grim Virtue in each rugged feature.


And second they, who neither know
What Passion means, nor Love can do;
Yet still for abstinence they preach;
Whilst Envy, rankling in the breast.
Inflames them, seeing others blest.
To curse the joys they cannot reach.


Not but there are— tho' but a few!
With charms, with love — and virtue too:--
But Malice never comes from them!
With charity they judge of all.
They weep to see a woman fall.
And pity where they most condemn.


If, Pythias, then thou'st done amiss,
This is thy crime, and only this;--
That Nature gave thee charms to move,
Gave thee a heart to joy inclined,
Gave thee a sympathetic mind.
And gave a soul attun'd to love.


When Malice scoffs, then, Pythias, why
Glistens abash'd thy tearful eye?
Why glows thy cheek that should be gay?
For tho' from shame thy sorrows gush,
Tho' conscious guilt imprints the blush,
By heav'ns, thou'rt modester than they.


But let them scoff, and let them sneer—
I heed them not, my love, I swear:
Nor shall they triumph in thy fall: --
I'll kiss away each tear of woe,
Hid by my breast thy cheek shall glow,
And Love shall make amends for all.  
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Re: The Love Epistles of Aristaenetus, by Nathaniel B. Halhe

Postby admin » Thu Mar 11, 2021 2:45 am

[Epistle xiii. -- This is the story of Antiochus and Seleucus;  but related in Aristaenetus under different names. Seleucus was one of Alexander's successors in Asia, having Syria for his kingdom: he married Stratonice, daughter to Demetrius, having had, by a former marriage, a son named Antiochus. Stratonice was the most beautiful and accomplished princess of her time; and unhappily inspired her son-in-law with the most ardent passion:— he fell sick; and Seleucus was in the greatest despair, when Erasistratus, one of his physicians, discovered the cause of the prince's malady, and, by his address, prevailed on the king to save his son's life, by resigning to him his wife, though he passionately loved her.]




FORTUNE, my friend, I've often thought  
Is weak, if Art assist her not:
So equally all Arts are vain.
If Fortune help them not again:
They've little lustre of their own
If separate, and view'd alone —  
But when together they unite,
They lend each other mutual light.—
— But since all symphony seems long
To those impatient for the song,
And lest my apothegms should fail
I'll haste to enter on my tale.

Once on a time, (for time has been
When men thought neither shame nor sin,
To keep, besides their lawful spouses,
A buxom filly in their houses)  
Once on a time then, as I said,
A hopeful youth, well-born, well-bred,
Seiz'd by a flame he could not hinder.
Was scorch'd and roasted to a cinder.
For why, the cause of all his pain
Was, that he fear'd all hope was vain:
—In short, the youth must needs adore
The nymph his father lov'd before.
'His father's mistress?'— even so.

And sure 'twas cause enough for woe.
In mere despair he kept his bed.
But feign'd some illness in its stead.
His father griev'd at his condition.
Sends post for an expert physician.
The doctor comes — consults his pulse—
No feverish quickness — no convulse;
Observes his looks, his skin, his eye—
No symptoms there of malady;
— At least of none within the knowledge
Of all the Pharmaceutic college.
Long did our Galen wond'ring stand,
Reflecting on the case in hand.—
Thus as he paus'd, came by the fair.
The cause of all his patient's care. —
Then his pulse beat quick and high:
Glow'd his cheek, and roll'd his eye.
Alike his face and arm confest
The conflict laboring in his breast.
Thus chance reveal'd the hidden smart.
That baffled all the search of art.
Still paus'd the doctor to proclaim
The luckily-discover'd flame:
But made a second inquisition
To satisfy his new suspicion.

From all the chambers, ev'ry woman.
Wives, maids, and widows did he summon;
And one by one he had them led
In order by the patient's bed.
He the meanwhile stood watchful nigh,
And felt his pulse, and mark'd his eye;
(For by the pulse physicians find
The hidden motions of the mind;)
While other girls walk'd by attractive,
The lover's art'ry lay inactive:
But when his charmer pass'd along.
His pulse beat doubly quick and strong.
Now all the malady appear'd:
Now all the doctor's doubts were cleared;

Who feign'd occasion to depart
To mix his drugs, consult his art:
He bid the father hope the best,
The lover set his heart at rest,
Then took his fee, and went away.
But promis'd to return next day.

Day came — the family environ
With anxious eagerness our Chiron.
But he repuls'd them rough, and cried,
'Ne'er can my remedy be tried.'
The father humbly question'd, why
They might not use the remedy?  
Th' enrag'd physician nought would say,
But earnest seem'd to haste away —
Th' afflicted fire more humble yet is,
Doubles his offers, pray'rs, intreaties—
While he, as if at last compell'd
To speak what better were with-held,
In anger cried — 'Your son must perish--
'My wife alone his life can cherish—
'On her th' adult'rer doats— and I
'My rival's hated sight would fly.'

The fire was now alike distrest.
To save his boy, or hurt his guest:
Long struggled he 'twixt love and shame;
At last parental love o'ercame.
And now he begs without remorse
His friend to grant this last resource:
Intreats him o'er and o'er t' apply
This hard, but only remedy.

'What, prostitute my wife!' exclaims
The doctor, 'pimp for lawless flames?'—  
Yet still the father teaz'd and prest;—
'O grant a doating fire's request!
'The necessary cure permit,
'And make my happiness complete.'
Thus did the doctor's art and care
The anxious parent's heart prepare:
And found him trying long and often
The term adultery to soften.

— He own'd, 'that custom sure enough.
'Had made it found a little rough:
'But then, said he, we ought to trace
'The source and causes of the case.
'All prejudice let's lay aside,
'And taking Nature for our guide.
'We'll try with candour to examine
'On what pretence this fashion came in.'
Then much he talk'd of man's first state,
(A copious subject for debate!)
Of choice and instinct then disputes,
All tending notably to prove,
That instinct was the law of Love:--
In short, that Nature gave us woman,
Like earth and air, to hold in common.
Then learned authors would he quote,
Philosophers of special note,
Who only thought their dames worth feeding,
As long as they held out for breeding;
And when employ'd in studious courses.
Would let them out, as we do horses.
Last followed a facetious query,
To rank the sex natura ferae [wild by nature].

The doctor, when the speech was clos'd,
Confess'd he was a little pos'd.
Then looking impudently grave,
'And how would you,' said he, 'behave?
'Would you part freely with your wife,
'To save a friend's expiring life?'

'By Jove, I'd act as I advise,'
The father eagerly replies. —
'Then,' cries the doctor, 'I have done--
'Intreat yourself to save your son.
'He loves your girl— can you endure
'To work the necessary cure?
'If it were just that I should give
'My wife to cause a friend to live;
'You surely may bestow with joy
'Your mistress, to preserve your boy.'
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Re: The Love Epistles of Aristaenetus, by Nathaniel B. Halhe

Postby admin » Thu Mar 11, 2021 3:37 am

[Epistle xiv. -- This letter is from a girl to her lovers, who courted her with music instead of money.]





HENCE! hence! ye songsters, hence! ye idle train!
Vain is the song, the pipe's soft warbling vain:
In me not joy thy strains inspire.
Nor passion can thy numbers move;
The thrills of the resounding lyre
To me are not the thrills of Love.—
For I know well to value gold aright;
I scorn a passion — while its gifts are light.  


Puff not your cheeks, fond youths! dismiss the flute;
Hush't be the harp, the soft guittar be mute:
Or hie, where pensive Echo sits
Moping the lonely rocks among;
She'll listen to your chanting fits.
Applaud, and pay you song for song,
But I know well to value gold aright,
And scorn a passion while its gifts are light.


Do, good Charmides, stop thy tuneful tongue;
And friendly Lycias trust not to thy song.
There is a sound— and well you know
That sound I never heard from thee—
The smallest clink of which, I vow,
Is sweetest harmony to me.
For I've been taught to value gold aright.
And scorn a passion while its gifts are light.  


Why do your vows in tuneful numbers flow?
Why urge the joys I do not wish to know?
Say, youth, can thy poetic fire
Make folly pleasant to the ear?
Can thy soft notes, and soothing lyre,
Make oaths, and lover's oaths sincere?
Go! go! I know to value gold aright.
And scorn a passion while its gifts are light.


Soft is thy note -- I grant 'tis soft;
Sweet is thy lay -- but I have heard it oft;
And will thy piping ne'er disgust,
When all the novelty is past?
Your stock will fail — you know it must:
And sweetest sounds will tire at last.
Then now's the time to value gold aright.
To scorn a passion while its gifts are light.


When the cold hand of age has damp'd thy fire,
Unstrung thy harp, and hush'd th' unheeded lyre;—
Say, will thy tuneless crazy voice
Keep chilling penury away?
Will mem'ry lead us to rejoice
Because, poor bard, thou once could'st play?
No! No! Then still I'll value gold aright,
And still the lover scorn whose gifts are light.

Then hence! ye songsters, hence! ye idle train!
Vain is the song, the pipe's soft warbling vain:
No idle triflings captivate this breast;
-- Produce your money — I'll excuse the rest.

Puff not your cheeks, fond youths! dismiss the flute,
Hush'd be the harp, the soft guittar be mute:
Such signs of passion in contempt I hold:—
But there's substantial proof of love— in gold.

I know you fancy me an easy fool.
Raw, and undisciplin'd in Venus' school;
A thoughtless victim, whom a song could move,
And each fond lay inspire with throbs of love:
Deluded swains! but vain do ye opine—
Know, the whole science of Intrigue is mine.
A dame, experienc'd in the mystic art.
Taught me to play with ablest skill my part:
Taught me to laugh at songs, and empty strains;
And taught how Cupid shone — in golden chains.
My sister too, and all her am'rous train
Tutor'd my youth,— nor were their lessons vain.
Full oft her suitors hath she frankly told,
'Your aim is beauty, sirs, and mine is— gold:
'Each other's wants let's mutually supply.'—
'Twas thus my sister spoke, — and thus speak I,
With her, I laugh at Cupid's batter'd name.
With her, I mock what fools call ger'rous flame;
With her, my theme's to value gold aright,
And scorn a passion while its gifts are light.
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Re: The Love Epistles of Aristaenetus, by Nathaniel B. Halhe

Postby admin » Thu Mar 11, 2021 4:15 am

[Epistle xv -- A narrative.]




LOVE, or of force, or of persuasion,
Avails him as best suits th' occasion:
And all, who've felt his tingling dart,
Will own its conquest o'er the heart.
Love can the thirst of blood assuage,
And bid the battle cease to rage:
Quell the rude discord, and compose
To peace the most determin'd foes.
Vain is the lance, and vain the shield,
And vain the wide embattled field;
Vain the long military train,
And Mars with all his terrors vain.
Cupid his stubborn angry soul
Can with a little shaft controul.--
Each champion, who with fury brave
Would stem war's most destructive wave,
Without a stroke, to Love will yield,
And quit at once his useless shield.--
T' ensure your credit to my text,
A case in point is here annext.

Two cities of no mean estate,
Miletus this, and Myus that,
Had long in mutual conflicts bled,
While Commerce droop'd with languid head.
And only while Miletus kept
Diana's feast, the contest slept:
A solemn truce was then allow'd:--
At Dian's shrine each city bow'd.--
And, 'till the festive revels cease,
'Twas nought but harmony and peace.

Then gleams th' hostile blade again,
And reeking gore manures the plain.
But Venus little could sustain
That Discord should eternal reign;
So clos'd for ever their dispute;
And thus she found the means to do't.

From Myus to Miletus came
A girl (Pieria was her name,)
Bright as the morn she was by nature,
And Venus now retouch'd each feature.

Then, at what time the sacred train
Attended at Diana's fane;
The prince of the Miletians came
And saw the maid, and felt the flame.
And soon the prince his love address'd,
'Speak, charmer, speak thy first request?
'Whate'er thy wish, whate'er thy want,
'Be't mine to make a double grant.'

But thee, fair maid, supreme in mind
As well as charms o'er womankind,
No idle choice seduc'd aside,
No giddy wish, no hurtful pride:
Thee could no costly gem ensnare,
No trinket to adorn thy hair:
No Carian slave didst thou request,
No precious chain, no Tyrian vest.--
But long didst stand with downcast eye,
As hesitating to reply;
Essaying, but in vain, to speak,
--While blushes dy'd thy modest cheek,
At last thy fault'ring tongue with fear
Thus utter'd faintly in his ear,
'Prince, to these walls give access free
'At all times for my friends and me.'

Phrygius full well perceiv'd her drift,
Yet nobly ratified his gift.
A peace was soon proclaim'd around.
And mighty Love the treaty bound:
A more sufficient guarantee,
Than any bonds or oaths could be.
And this example well may prove
That nought's so eloquent as Love:
For oft had orators, whose style was
Mellifluent as the seer's of Pylos,

[Seer of Pylos. -- Nestor, famous in Homer for his eloquence.]

Conven'd, debated, and return'd—
While still the rage of battle burn'd.
But Cupid's sweeter elocution
Brought matters quick to a conclusion.
And hence the Ionian maids deduce
Th' expression now so much in use,
'May we such noble presents have,
'As erst the princely Phrygius gave!
'And may our Lords as faithful be,
'As thine, Pieria, was to thee.'
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Re: The Love Epistles of Aristaenetus, by Nathaniel B. Halhe

Postby admin » Fri Mar 12, 2021 4:15 am

[Epistle xvi. -- A lover, who long had feared to disclose his passion, at length describes to his friend the circumstances of success.]




IN secret pining thus I sigh'd,
'Love, thou alone my flame dost know,
'Who didst the fatal arrow guide,
'And Venus, who prepared thy bow.

'Not to my friend, to her much less
'Dare I my hopeless flame disclose;
'And love conceal'd, burns to excess,
'And with redoubled ardour glows.  

'Me, Cupid, hast thou robb'd of rest;
'Wound too the maid whose love I seek;
'But pierce with lighter shaft her breast,
'Lest grief make wan that blooming cheek.'

Sweet did she speak, and sweetly smile,
When lately I admittance had,
Yet seem'd she so reserv'd the while,
The inconsistence made me mad.

Her snowy hands, her lovely face
I view'd, with admiration fill'd:
Her easy negligence of dress,
Her bosom, feat of bliss, reveal'd!

Still dar'd I not my love make known,
But silently to Cupid pray'd,
'Grant that she first her passion own!'--
The pow'rful archer lent his aid.

Sudden she seiz'd my hand— her eyes
With am'rous elocution speak—
Instant her wonted rigour flies.
And Love fits dimpling on her check.

Intoxicated with desire,
Her panting neck she did incline:
And kiss'd me with such life and fire
I thought her soul would blend with mine.

— Description can no farther go,
T' express our happiness too weak—
But well did half-form'd accents show,
Our joys were more than we could speak.  
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Re: The Love Epistles of Aristaenetus, by Nathaniel B. Halhe

Postby admin » Fri Mar 12, 2021 4:42 am

[Epistle xvii. -- From a lover complaining of the pride and insensibility of his mistress.]




YES, she is cold -- Oh! how severely cold! —
That breast Love's gentle taper ne'er could warm.—

Who could believe a heart of savage mould
Was e'er enshrin'd within so bright a form?

Yet not unnotic'd in the fields of Love
Have I sustain'd full many a brisk campaign:
For many a trophy strove, -- nor vainly strove, --
While maids, and wives, and widows own'd my reign. 

But now, alas! that idle boast expires;
And Daphnis wears the laurels I had won.
Now Xenopeithes pines with new desires,
And all his fame in one defeat is flown.

Yes— she is ev'ry way replete with wiles--
Love's she?— 'tis silence.— Is she lov'd?' -- 'tis scorn,
Flatt'ry she hates;— at proffer'd gifts she smiles.—
As law, must her imperious will be born.

Laughs she?— her lips alone that laughter own--
No smiling dimples on her cheeks are spread—
And once I ventur'd to reprove her frown,
And told her, 'Charms should love inspire, not dread.' —

As well might I have spoken to the air,
Or to an ass have touch'd the melting lute.—

But still—

[The falling drop, &c. -- An ancient proverb. ''Nonne vides etiam guttas in faxa cadentes; Humoris longo spatio pertundere faxa." -- LUCRET, lib. iii.
'Hard bodies, which the lightest stroke receive; In length of time will moulder and decay; And stones with drops of rain are wash'd away.']


When the older ones among us falter ...




the youth will stiffen and remain until their bodies decay.

-- Triumph of the Will, directed by Leni Riefenstahl

The falling drop the stone will wear,—
And still I'll ply my disappointed suit.

With more delusive baits my hook I'll gild--
Still on my line the slipp'ry prize shall play.
—And 'tis Love's grand distinction not to yield,
But toil and toil, altho' he lose the day.

Ten years could vanquish heav'n-defended Troy.—
And O! do thou, my friend, assist my aim—
(For thou hast felt the all-destructive boy)

[The same our labours, &c. -- Another Greek proverb. ''In eadem es navi." [Google translate: "Are in the same boat]— Cic. Epist. ii.]

The same our labours, as our skiff the same.
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Re: The Love Epistles of Aristaenetus, by Nathaniel B. Halhe

Postby admin » Fri Mar 12, 2021 6:06 am

[Epistle xviii. -- A panegyrick on a dainty courtezan.]




UNNUMBER'D pleasures are your own,
Who youth and beauty prize alone—
Who seek not riches to excess,
Bui place them after happiness:
Who from the sighing am'rous crew
Select alone the lovely few:
And when a beauteous swain you meet,
His flame with mutual ardour greet:
But scorn the mean, the sottish hind,
Whose wealth would bribe you to be kind.
You can, like Spartan hounds, discover,
With quickest scent, a worthy lover,  
Skilful to beat, to wind, to double,
For game that may reward your trouble,
Then hoary dotards you despise—
'Tis that which proves you truly wise.
Were any wretch, deform'd, and old,
To bring inestimable gold.
His treasures vainly were employ'd,
Tho' great as Tantalus enjoy'd:
Not all his presents could atone
For youth, and health, and vigour flown:
Haggard with age, and with disease,
You'd loath his person— scorn his fees.
The mere description shocks one much--
How then th' original to touch?—
Hence many a cogent cause appears
T' advise equality of years:
For similarity of ages
To similar pursuits engages.
And you draw arguments from truth
In praise of ev'ry diff'rent youth.
Say— has your love a little nose?
How neat, how delicate it shows!—
If aquiline, it arches high —
Oh — the grand type of majesty!—
If neither large it be, nor small —
'Tis due proportion — best of all!—
A swarthy skin — is manly grace—
The fairer youths — a heav'nly race--
In short, you catch at each pretence.
And torture words to ev'ry sense.
For ev'ry youthful swain to find
Excuses, why you should be kind:
As drunkards ev'ry reason think
May sanction a demand for drink.—

'Come — we are young — let's t'other pot'—
"The tankard here, to cheer the old''--
Some drink because — ' 'tis parching hot,'
And some, because — ' 'tis bitter cold.'
T' exemplify the love of wine,
I cease to write — the case is mine.

Faulhaber, like most church leaders, was an old-line conservative, not a Nazi. The Nazis believed that such older men could never really accept their Weltanschauung, even if they were not confessed Christians. The movement made much of the difference between generations. The young were set off against the old, and the same distinction that was made between the old and young nations was operative within the Volk itself. When Hitler damned the bourgeoisie, he was inveighing against the older generation, brought up under the Empire. Hanns Johst expresses this condemnation in his play Schlageter. The son, August, is fire and flame for the Nazi hero and his adventurous fight for the Fatherland. Schneider, the father, counsels caution. Moreover, typically enough, the father thinks in terms of social classes and making money (the two go together in the Nazi ideology), while the son wants "not to earn but to serve." The older man ridicules this attitude as "adolescent romanticism," but this romanticism symbolizes in reality the son's urge to "belong" to his Volk.

This emphasis on youth is common to most revolutions, and was employed by the National Socialists from the very beginning. To be vigorous meant to be youthful, the "new man" of heroic will had to be a figure of youth: killed in action against the enemy like Schlageter, dying while vigorously engaged in a great and strenuous effort like the constructor of the Autobahnen, Fritz Todt. The Nazi leadership itself was young; Hitler was only forty-four years old when he came to power. Moreover, the Nazis realized that if youth could be captured by their world view, the future was assured. Once again we find an attitude typical of all modern revolutions. Fascism in all countries made a fetish of youthfulness. What a contrast this offered to the elderly politicians haggling in parliaments or to the fossilized bureaucracies which ran the nations (and the political parties) of Europe. The Nazis capitalized on the discontent of youth, its spirit of rebellion against parents and school. Ever since the end of the last century a large and vocal section of bourgeois youth had wanted to detach itself from the "respectable" society into which it had been born. Hitler offered them a way, and many young people (not just the unemployed) streamed into the party ranks, lured by the activism of the Nazis, their stress on the heroic will, and their well-defined goals. They could criticize the "bourgeoisie" -- meaning their elders -- and still retain their deeply inbred bourgeois prejudices. For many young people, the ideal of action, adventure, and movement may initially have concealed the rights and wrongs of the Nazi goals themselves...

Evidence that Nazism appealed to youth comes to us from all sides, and the Nazis themselves saw in the young people the key to the future of the movement. That is why we have devoted one of the longest sections in the book to youth. Education is crucial here, for if an ideology can be institutionalized through the educational establishment it has won a major battle. The Nazis realized this only too well, and youth in its turn seemed ready for the message...

On July 18, 1937, Hitler delivered a speech at the opening of the House of German Art in Munich, which was to take the place of the former "Glass Palace."...

"The new age of today is at work on a new human type. Men and women are to be more healthy, stronger: there is a new feeling of life, a new joy in life. Never was humanity in its external appearance and in its frame of mind nearer to the ancient world than it is today." Hitler spoke of the Olympic Games, of sport, of the radiant, proud bodily vigor of youth. "This, my good prehistoric art-stutterers, is the type of the new age. And what do you manufacture? Misformed cripples and cretins, women who inspire only disgust, men who are more like wild beasts, children who, were they alive, must be regarded as cursed of God..."

If today we see German youth on the march under the banner of the swastika, we are reminded of Nietzsche's "untimely meditations" in which this youth was appealed to for the first time. It is our greatest hope that the state today is wide open to our youth. And if today we shout "Heil Hitler!" to this youth, at the same time we are also hailing Nietzsche...

"We young people have the greater right before history.

"The old ones don't even want to understand that we young people even exist. They defend their power to the last.

"But one day they will be defeated after all. Youth finally must be victorious.

-- Nazi Culture: Intellectual, Cultural and Social Life in the Third Reich, by George L. Mosse
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