The
king enjoys the piece, which shows
That a classical taste's not lacking.
The late king greatly preferred, in his time,
To listen to modern quacking.
dt
text .
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note. x
•
x
•
x
11
And
yet, though the king enjoys the play,
Were the author a living poet
Who valued his person, my counsel would be
In Prussia not to show it.
dt
text .
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x
12
Aristophanes,
even the genuine one,
Who lived in freedom before us,
Might now find himself followed, wherever he went,
By a crowd of gendarmes for chorus.
dt
text .
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x
13
The
mob had gotten permission soon
To insult him instead of fawning,
And the bard, in the clutch of the dread police,
Might have seen a dungeon yawning.
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x
14
O
King! I honestly wish you well,
And mean you a kindness by giving
This counsel: Honour the poets dead,
But spare the poets living.
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15
Offend
not the poets alive to-day;
They have weapons of fame and glory
More awful than even the lightnings of Jove,
In the bard's immortal story.
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x
16
Offend
the gods both old and new,
And let all Olympus know it;
Offend Almighty God Himself,
But never offend a poet.
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x
17
That
the gods can punish the sins of men
Is, alas! no idle boasting;
The fires of hell are fairly hot,
And there's plenty of time for roasting.
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text .
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x x
18
But
priests can pray the sinner free
From the flames; a pious donation
To the church for masses to purge his soul,
Will win him back salvation.
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text .
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x
19
And
Jesus Christ, in the fulness of time,
Will arise and break hell's portal;
And, though he may call to a strict account,
He'll be dodged by many a mortal.
dt
text .
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x
20
And
yet there are hells, believe me, O King!
Which they hold such watch and ward on,
That no prayers avail to set you free,
Not even a Saviour's pardon.
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text .
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x
21
You
have surely heard of Dante's hell,
In the three dread books. Oh, never
Shall any win free whom the poet put there,
They are damned and lost for ever!
dt
text .
•
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22
No
God, no Christ can save your soul
When the surging flames consume you.
Then beware, O King! lest for evermore
To such a hell we doom you.
