Episode 79

Daedalus and Icarus from Ovid’s Metamorphses, translated by Arthur Golding 

Mark McGuinness reads and discusses Arthur Golding’s translation of Ovid’s Metamorphoses.

Poet

Ovid, translated by Arthur Golding

Reading and commentary by

Mark McGuinness

Daedalus and Icarus from Ovid’s Metamorphoses

Translated Arthur Golding

As soon as that the worke was done, the workman by and by
Did peyse his bodie on his wings, and in the Aire on hie
Hung wavering: and did teach his sonne how he should also flie.
I warne thee (quoth he), Icarus, a middle race to keepe.
For if thou hold too low a gate, the dankenesse of the deepe
Will overlade thy wings with wet. And if thou mount too hie,
The Sunne will sindge them. Therfore see betweene them both thou flie.
I bid thee not behold the Starre Bootes in the Skie.
Nor looke upon the bigger Beare to make thy course thereby,
Nor yet on Orions naked sword. But ever have an eie
To keepe the race that I doe keepe, and I will guide thee right.
In giving counsell to his sonne to order well his flight,
He fastned to his shoulders twaine a paire of uncoth wings.
And as he was in doing it and warning him of things,
His aged cheekes were wet, his hands did quake, in fine he gave
His sonne a kisse the last that he alive should ever have.
And then he mounting up aloft before him tooke his way
Right fearfull for his followers sake: as is the Bird the day
That first she tolleth from hir nest among the braunches hie
Hir tender yong ones in the Aire to teach them for to flie.
So heartens he his little sonne to follow teaching him
A hurtfull Art. His owne two wings he waveth verie trim,
And looketh backward still upon his sonnes. The fishermen
Then standing angling by the Sea, and shepeherdes leaning then
On sheepehookes, and the Ploughmen on the handles of their Plough,
Beholding them, amazed were: and thought that they that through
The Aire could flie were Gods. And now did on their left side stand
The Iles of Paros and of Dele and Samos, Junos land:
And on their right, Lebinthos and the faire Calydna fraught
With store of honie: when the Boy a frolicke courage caught
To flie at randon. Whereupon forsaking quight his guide,
Of fond desire to flie to Heaven, above his boundes he stide.
And there the nerenesse of the Sunne which burnd more hote aloft,
Did make the Wax (with which his wings were glewed) lithe and soft.
As soone as that the Wax was molt, his naked armes he shakes,
And wanting wherewithall to wave no helpe of Aire he takes.
But calling on his father loud he drowned in the wave:
And by this chaunce of his those Seas his name for ever have.
His wretched Father (but as then no father) cride in feare:
O Icarus, O Icarus, where art thou? tell me where
That I may finde thee, Icarus. He saw the fethers swim
Upon the waves, and curst his Art that so had spighted him.

Podcast transcript

This is a very well-known story – the tale of Daedalus and Icarus. I’m sure you were familiar with it even before I read this version, and it would have been equally familiar to the earliest readers of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, written around the time of Jesus. The first recorded references to Daedalus, the master craftsman, engineer, and artificer of the ancient Greek world, go back to about 1400 BC, so by the time Ovid wrote the Metamorphoses, the story of Daedalus was already very old.

Ovid – full name, Publius Ovidius Naso – was a Roman poet born into a wealthy family at a time when the Roman authorities were particularly keen on poetry. Augustus was the first Roman emperor, and his regime used poetry as a tool for political propaganda and cultural consolidation. It saw poetry as a way of legitimising Augustus’ rule and celebrating Roman values, emphasising the stability of his reign after years of civil wars. That’s why the poets of this era are known as Augustan poets.

So this was a time of great opportunity for poets, but, as Ovid learned the hard way, it was a fine line to walk. While having the authorities’ attention was great if you were saying what they wanted to hear, crossing the line could land you in big trouble.

Which is exactly what happened to Ovid: at the height of his fame he was exiled to what Romans considered the barbarian wastes of Moesia, a province on the Black Sea. The exact reason for his exile remains a mystery to this day. According to Ovid himself, in one of his poems, it was due to ‘a poem and a mistake’. There’s been much speculation about what the mistake was, but the poem in question was almost certainly the racy and explicit Ars Amatoria, (The Art of Love).

And we get a sense of a poet walking a fine line all the way through the Metamorphoses. On the one hand, it’s a poem written in the grand epic style – Ovid was clearly aiming to compete with Virgil, who had already produced his great Augustan epic, The Aeneid. So this is a high-flown compendium of famous and supposedly edifying myths from ancient Greece.

But on the other hand it’s a, highly entertaining collection of tales that are not only dramatic and exciting, but also, dark, violent and disturbing. As well as lots battles, betrayals and deceptions, there is an extensive catalogue of sexual crimes and transgressions.

Now fast forward 1,500 years, and we find this poem being translated by Arthur Golding, an English gentleman born in the 1530s. Golding was a keen translator, like many of his contemporaries. Sixteenth-century England was a time of great enthusiasm for rediscovering Greek and Roman literature, just as the artists of Renaissance had been rediscovering the sculpture and visual art of the ancient world. So this translation is very much part of that broader cultural trend.

At the time, knowledge of Latin and Greek literature was considered something an educated person really ought to have. Which is how a book like the Metamorphoses, despite its X-rated content, ended up as a standard set text in grammar schools across England. Any child lucky enough to receive that kind of education would have learned Latin, and very likely encountered Ovid’s Metamorphoses.

One such student was a William Shakespeare, at the grammar school in Stratford-upon-Avon. He would have had enough Latin to read the original, but it’s also clear he knew Golding’s version extremely well, and it was one of his favourite books, providing source material for his poems and plays. So when I read this translation, it feels like I’m reading over Shakespeare’s shoulder.

And it wasn’t just Shakespeare. The Metamorphoses is one of the most influential books in European culture. If you walk into any gallery of paintings from the 16th to the 19th century, it’s like stepping into a lavishly illustrated edition of the Metamorphoses, scenes from the poem are all over the walls.

And the poem conti