EPIGRAMS AGAINST CARTHY BY SWIFT AND OTHERS

CHARLES CARTHY, a schoolmaster in the city of Dublin, was publisher of a translation of Horace, in which the Latin was printed on the one side, and the English on the other, whence he acquired the name of Mezentius, alluding to the practice of that tyrant, who chained the dead to the living. 
  Carthy was almost continually involved in satirical skirmishes with
Dunkin, for whom Swift had a particular friendship, and there is no doubt that the Dean himself engaged in the warfare.—­Scott.

ON CARTHY’S TRANSLATION OF HORACE

Containing, on one side, the original Latin, on the other, his own version.

This I may boast, which few e’er could,
Half of my book at least is good.

ON CARTHY MINOTAURUS

How monstrous Carthy looks with Flaccus braced, For here we see the man and there the beast.

ON THE SAME

Once Horace fancied from a man,
He was transformed to a swan;[1]
But Carthy, as from him thou learnest,
Has made the man a goose in earnest.

[Footnote 1: 
  “Jam jam residunt cruribus asperae
  Pelles, et album mutor in alitem
    Superne, nascunturque leves
      Per digitos humerosque plumae.” 
Lib. ii, Carm. xx.]

ON THE SAME

Talis erat quondam Tithoni splendida conjux,
  Effulsit misero sic Dea juncta viro;
Hunc tandem imminuit sensim longaeva senectus,
  Te vero extinxit, Carole, prima dies.

IMITATED

So blush’d Aurora with celestial charms,
So bloom’d the goddess in a mortal’s arms;
He sunk at length to wasting age a prey,
But thy book perish’d on its natal day.

AD HORATIUM CUM CARTHIO CONSTRICTUM

Lectores ridere jubes dum Carthius astat? 
Iste procul depellit olens tibi Maevius omnes: 
Sic triviis veneranda diu, Jovis inclyta proles
Terruit, assumpto, mortales, Gorgonis ore.

IMITATED

Could Horace give so sad a monster birth? 
Why then in vain he would excite our mirth;
His humour well our laughter might command,
But who can bear the death’s head in his hand?

AN IRISH EPIGRAM ON THE SAME

While with the fustian of thy book,
  The witty ancient you enrobe,
You make the graceful Horace look
  As pitiful as Tom M’Lobe.[1]
Ye Muses, guard your sacred mount,
  And Helicon, for if this log
Should stumble once into the fount,
  He’ll make it muddy as a bog.