from "SATURA XIII" from "SATIRE XIII"
Juvenal (Decimus Junius Juvenalis) trans. John Quincy Adams
Exemplo quodcumque malo committitur, ipsi
displicet auctori. prima est haec ultio, quod se
iudice nemo nocens absoluitur, improba quamuis
gratia fallaci praetoris uicerit urna.

quid sentire putas homines, Caluine, recenti
de scelere et fidei uiolatae crimine? sed nec
tam tenuis census tibi contigit, ut mediocris
iacturae te mergat onus, nec rara uidemus
quae pateris: casus multis hic cognitus ac iam
tritus et e medio fortunae ductus aceruo.

ponamus nimios gemitus. flagrantior aequo
non debet dolor esse uiri nec uolnere maior.

tu quamuis leuium minimam exiguamque malorum
particulam uix ferre potes spumantibus ardens
uisceribus, sacrum tibi quod non reddat amicus
depositum? stupet haec qui iam post terga reliquit
sexaginta annos Fonteio consule natus?

an nihil in melius tot rerum proficis usu?
magna quidem, sacris quae dat praecepta libellis,
uictrix fortunae sapientia, ducimus autem
hos quoque felices, qui ferre incommoda uitae
nec iactare iugum uita didicere magistra.

quae tam festa dies, ut cesset prodere furem,
perfidiam, fraudes atque omni ex crimine lucrum
quaesitum et partos gladio uel pyxide nummos?

rari quippe boni, numera, uix sunt totidem quot
Thebarum portae uel diuitis ostia Nili.

.....
.....
From Virtue's paths, when hapless men depart,
The first avenger is the culprit's heart;
There sits a judge, from whose severe decree
No strength can rescue, and no speed can flee;
A judge, unbiass'd by the quibbling tribe!
A judge, whom India's treasures cannot bribe.
Calvin, what thinkest thou the world will say,
To see thy faithless friend his trust betray
Yet, to thy fortune, is the breach but small;
Thy purse will scarcely feel the loss at all;
Nor are examples of such baseness rare!
'Tis what in common with thee thousands bear;
A single drop of water from the deep!
A single grain from fortune's boundless heap.
Excessive sorrow let us then restrain:
A man should measure by the wound his pain!
Though keen thy sense, the smallest ill to meet,
Must thy blood boil to find thy friend a cheat?
The sacred trust committed he denies
But, at thy age, can treachery surprise?
When threescore winters thou hast left behind,
To long experience art thou still so blind?
Great, and prevailing is the sacred lore,
Which Wisdom, Fortune's victress, has in store;
But we consider likewise those as blest,
Who meet the woes of life with placid breast;
Bred in life's school, who bend beneath her sway,
Nor from her yoke would draw their necks away.
Is there a day so festive through the year,
But frequent frauds and perfidies appear?
A single day, but sees triumphant vice
With lurking dagger, or with loaded dice?
Small is the train who honor's path pursue;
The friends of virtue are a chosen few
So few, that gathering o'er the spacious earth
A full collection of untainted worth,
Scarce could you find a number, free from guile,
To match the gates of Thebes, or mouths of Nile.
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