"O heaven-abandoned wretch! is all this care To save your stores for some degenerate heir, A son, or e'en a freedman, who will pour All down his throttle, ere a year is o'er? You fear to come to want yourself, you say? Come, calculate how small the loss per day, If henceforth to your cabbage you allow And your own head the oil you grudge them now. If anything's sufficient, why forswear, Embezzle, swindle, pilfer everywhere? Can you be sane? suppose you choose to throw Stones at the crowd, as by your door they go, Or at the slaves, your chattels, every lad And every girl will hoot yon down as mad: When with a rope you kill your wife, with bane Your aged mother, are you right in brain? Why not? Orestes did it with the blade, And 'twas in Argos that the scene was laid. Think you that madness only then begun To seize him, when the impious deed was done, And not that Furies spurred him on, before The sword grew purple with a parent's gore? Nay, from the time they reckon him insane, He did no deed of which you could complain: No stroke this madman at Electra aims Or Pylades: he only calls them names, Fury or other monster, in the style Which people use when stirred by tragic bile.

"Opimius, who, with gold and silver store Lodged in his coffers, ne'ertheless was poor (The man would drink from earthen nipperkin Flat wine on working-days, on feast-days thin), Once fell into a lethargy so deep That his next heir supposed it more than sleep, And entering on possession at his ease, Went round the coffers and applied the keys. The doctor had a conscience and a head: He had a table moved beside the bed, Poured out a money-bag, and bade men come And ring the coin and reckon o'er the sum: Then, lifting up his patient, he began: 'That heir of yours is plundering you, good man. 'What? while I live?' 'You wish to live? then take The necessary steps: be wide awake.' 'What steps d'ye mean?' 'Your strength will soon run short, Unless your stomach have some strong support. Come, rouse yourself: take this ptisane of rice.' 'The price?' 'A trifle.' 'I will know the price.' 'Eight-pence.' 'O dear! what matters it if I Die by disease or robbery? still I die.' "'Who then is sane?' He that's no fool, in troth. 'Then what's a miser?' Fool and madman both. 'Well, if a man's no miser, is he sane That moment?' No. 'Why, Stoic?' I'll explain. The stomach here is sound as any bell, Craterus may say: then is the patient well? May he get up? Why no; there still are pains That need attention in the side or reins. You're not forsworn nor miserly: go kill A porker to the gods who ward off ill. You're headlong and ambitious: take a trip To Madman's Island by the next swift ship. For where's the difference, down the rabble's throat To pour your gold, or never spend a groat?

Servius Oppidius, so the story runs, Rich for his time, bequeathed to his two sons Two good-sized farms, and calling to his bed The hopeful youths, in faltering accents said: 'E'er since I saw you, Aulus, give away Your nuts and taws, or squander them at play, While you, Tiberius, careful and morose, Would count them over, hide them, keep them close, I've feared lest both should err in different ways, And one have Cassius', one Cicuta's craze. So now I beg you by the household powers Who guard, and still shall guard, this roof of ours, That you diminish not, nor you augment What I and nature fix for your content. To bar ambition too, I lay an oath Of heaviest weight upon the souls of both; Should either be an aedile, or, still worse, A praetor, let him feel a father's curse. What? would you wish to lavish my bequest In vetches, beech-nuts, lupines and the rest, You, that in public you may strut, or stand All bronze, when stripped of money, stripped of land; You, that Agrippa's plaudits you may win, A sneaking fox in a brave lion's skin?'

"What moves you, Agamemnon, thus to fling Great Ajax to the dogs? 'I am a king.' And I a subject: therefore I forbear More questions. 'Right; for what I will is fair: Yet, if there be who fancy me unjust, I give my conduct up to be discussed.' Mightiest of mighty kings, may proud success And safe return your conquering army bless! May I ask questions then, and shortly speak When you have answered? 'Take the leave you seek.' Then why should Ajax, though so oft renowned For patriot service, rot above the ground, Your bravest next Achilles, just that Troy And envious Priam may the scene enjoy, Beholding him, through whom their children came To feed the dogs, himself cast out to shame? 'A flock the madman slew, and cried that he Had killed my brother, Ithacus, and me.' Well, when you offered in a heifer's stead Your child, and strewed salt meal upon her head, Then were you sane, I ask you? 'Why not sane?' Why, what did Ajax when the flock was slain? He did no violence to his wife or child: He cursed the Atridae, true; his words were wild; But against Teucer ne'er a hand he raised, Nor e'en Ulysses: yet you call him crazed. 'But I, of purpose, soothed the gods with blood, To gain our fleet free passage o'er the flood.' Blood! ay, your own, you madman. 'Nay, not so: My own, I grant it: but a madman's, no.'

"He that sees things amiss, his mind distraught By guilty deeds, a madman will be thought; And, so the path of reason once be missed, Who cares if rage or folly gave the twist? When Ajax falls with fury on the fold, He shows himself a madman, let us hold: When you, of purpose, do a crime to gain A meed of empty glory, are you sane? The heart that air-blown vanities dilate, Will medicine say 'tis in its normal state? Suppose a man in public chose to ride With a white lambkin nestling at his side, Called it his daughter, had it richly clothed, And did his best to get it well betrothed, The law would call him madman, and the care Of him and of his goods would pass elsewhere. You offer up your daughter for a lamb; And are you rational? Don't say, I am. No; when a man's a fool, he's then insane: The man that's guilty, he's a maniac plain: The dupe of bubble glory, war's grim queen Has dinned away his senses, clear and clean.

"Cassius and luxury! hunt that game with me; For spendthrifts are insane, the world shall see. Soon as the youngster had received at last The thousand talents that his sire amassed, He sent round word to all the sharking clan, Perfumer, fowler, fruiterer, fisherman, Velabrum's refuse, Tuscan Alley's scum, To come to him. next morning. Well, they come. First speaks the pimp: 'Whatever I or these Possess, is yours: command it when you please.' Now hear his answer, and admire the mind That thus could speak, so generous and so kind. 'You sleep in Umbrian snow-fields, booted o'er The hips, that I may banquet on a boar; You scour the sea for fish in winter's cold, And I do nought; I don't deserve this gold: Here, take it; you a hundred, you as much, But you, the spokesman, thrice that sum shall touch.'

"AEsopus' son took from his lady dear A splendid pearl that glittered in her ear, Then melted it in vinegar, and quaffed (Such was his boast) a thousand at a draught: How say you? had the act been more insane To fling it in a river or a drain?

"Arrius' two sons, twin brothers, of a piece In vice, perverseness, folly, and caprice, Would lunch off nightingales: well, what's their mark? Shall it be chalk or charcoal, white or dark?

"To ride a stick, to build a paper house, Play odd and even, harness mouse and mouse, If a grown man professed to find delight In things like these, you'd call him mad outright. "Well now, should reason force you to admit That love is just as childish, every whit; To own that whimpering at your mistress' door Is e'en as weak as building on the floor; Say, will you put conviction into act, And, like young Polemo, at once retract; Take off the signs and trappings of disease, Your leg-bands, tippets, furs, and muffatees, As he slipped off his chaplets, when the word Of sober wisdom all his being stirred?

"Give a cross child an apple: 'Take it, pet:' He sulks and will not: hold it back, he'll fret. Just so the shut-out lover, who debates And parleys near the door he vows he hates, In doubt, when sent for, to go back or no, Though, if not sent for, he'd be sure to go. 'She calls me: ought I to obey her call, Or end this long infliction once for all? The door was shut:'tis open: ah, that door! Go back? I won't, however she implore.' So he. Now listen while the slave replies, And say if of the two he's not more wise: 'Sir, if a thing is senseless, to bring sense To bear upon it is a mere pretence; Now love is such a thing, the more's the shame; First war, then peace, 'tis never twice the same, For ever heaving, like a sea in storm, And taking every hour some different form. You think to fix it? why, the job's as bad As if you tried by reason to be mad.'

"When you pick apple-pips, and try to hit The ceiling with them, are you sound of wit? "When with your withered lips you bill and coo, Is he that builds card-houses worse than you? Then, too, the blood that's spilt by fond desires, The swords that men will use to poke their fires! When Marius killed his mistress t'other day And broke his neck, was he demented, say? Or would you call him criminal instead, And stigmatize his heart to save his head, Following the common fallacy, which founds A different meaning upon different sounds?

"There was an aged freedman, who would run From shrine to shrine at rising of the sun, Sober and purified for prayer, and cry 'Save me, me only! sure I need not die; Heaven can do all things:' ay, the man was sane In ears and eyes: but how about his brain? Why, that his master, if not bent to plead Before a court, could scarce have guaranteed. Him and all such Chrysippus would assign To mad Menenius' most prolific line.

"'Almighty Jove, who giv'st and tak'st away The pains we mortals suffer, hear me pray!' (So cries the mother of a child whose cold, Or ague rather, now is five months old) 'Cure my poor boy, and he shall stand all bare In Tiber, on thy fast, in morning air.' So if, by chance or treatment, the attack Should pass away, the wretch will bring it back, And give the child his death: 'tis madness clear; But what produced it? superstitious fear."

Such were the arms Stertinius, next in sense To the seven sages, gave me for defence. Now he that calls me mad gets paid in kind, And told to feel the pigtail stuck behind.

H. Good Stoic, may you mend your loss, and sell All your enormous bargains twice as well. But pray, since folly's various, just explain What type is mine? for I believe I'm sane.

D. What? is Agave conscious that she's mad When she holds up the head of her poor lad?

H. I own I'm foolish—truth must have her will— Nay, mad: but tell me, what's my form of ill?

D. I'll tell you. First, you build, which means you try To ape great men, yourself some two feet high, And yet you laugh to see poor Turbo fight, When he looks big and strains beyond his height. What? if Maecenas does a thing, must you, His weaker every way, attempt it too? A calf set foot on some young frogs, they say, Once when the mother chanced to be away: One 'scapes, and tells his dam with bated breath How a huge beast had crushed the rest to death: "How big?" quoth she: "is this as big?" and here She swelled her body out. "No, nothing near." Then, seeing her still fain to puff and puff, "You'll burst," gays he, "before you're large enough." Methinks the story fits you. Now then, throw Your verses in, like oil to feed the glow. If ever poet yet was sane, no doubt, You may put in your plea, but not without. Your dreadful temper—

H. Hold.

D. The sums you spend Beyond your income—

H. Mind yourself, my friend.

D. And then, those thousand flames no power can cool.

H. O mighty senior, spare a junior fool!



SATIRE IV.

UNDE ET QUO CATIUS?

HORACE. CATIUS.

HORACE.

Ho, Catius! whence and whither?

C. Not to-day: I cannot stop to talk: I must away To set down words of wisdom, which surpass The Athenian sage and deep Pythagoras.

H. Faith, I did ill at such an awkward time To cross your path; but you'll forgive the crime: If you've lost aught, you'll get it back ere long By nature or by art; in both you're strong.

C. Ah, 'twas a task to keep the whole in mind, For style and matter were alike refined.

H. But who was lecturer? tell me whence he came.

C. I give the precepts, but suppress the name.

The oblong eggs by connoisseurs are placed Above the round for whiteness and for taste: Procure them for your table without fail, For they're more fleshy, and their yolk is male. The cabbage of dry fields is sweeter found Than the weak growth of washed-out garden ground. Should some chance guest surprise you late at night, For fear the new-killed fowl prove tough to bite, Plunge it while living in Falernian lees, And then 'twill be as tender as you please. Mushrooms that grow in meadows are far best; You can't be too suspicious of the rest. He that would pass through summer without hurt Should eat a plate of mulberries for dessert, But mind to pluck them in the morning hour, Before the mid-day sun exerts its power.

Aufidius used Falernian, rich and strong, To mingle with his honey: he did wrong: For when the veins are empty, 'tis not well To pour in fiery drinks to make them swell: Mild gentle draughts will better do their part In nourishing the cockles of the heart. In costive cases, limpets from the shell Are a cheap way the evil to dispel, With groundling sorrel: but white Coan neat You'll want to make the recipe complete. For catching shell-fish the new moon's the time, But there's a difference between clime and clime; Baiae is good, but to the Lucrine yields; Circeii ranks as best for oyster-fields; Misenum's cape with urchins is supplied; Flat bivalve mussels are Tarentum's pride.

Let no man fancy he knows how to dine Till he has learnt how taste and taste combine. 'Tis not enough to sweep your fish away From the dear stall, and chuckle as you pay, Not knowing which want sauce, and which when broiled Will tempt a guest whose appetite is spoiled.

The man who hates wild boars that eat like tame Gets his from Umbria, genuine mast-fed game: For the Laurentian beast, that makes its fat Off sedge and reeds, is flavourless and flat. The flesh of roes that feed upon the vine Is not to be relied on when you dine. With those who know what parts of hare are best You'll find the wings are mostly in request. Fishes and fowls, their nature and their age, Have oft employed the attention of the sage; But how to solve the problem ne'er was known By mortal palate previous to my own.

There are whose whole invention is confined To novel sweets: that shows a narrow mind; As if you wished your wines to be first-rate, But cared not with what oil your fish you ate. Put Massic wine to stand 'neath a clear sky All night, away the heady fumes will fly, Purged by cool air: if 'tis through linen strained, You spoil the flavour, and there's nothing gained. Who mix Surrentine with Falernian dregs Clear off the sediment with pigeons' eggs: The yolk goes down; all foreign matters sink Therewith, and leave the beverage fit to drink. 'Tis best with roasted shrimps and Afric snails To rouse your drinker when his vigour fails: Not lettuce; lettuce after wine ne'er lies Still in the stomach, but is sure to rise: The appetite, disordered and distressed, Wants ham and sausage to restore its zest; Nay, craves for peppered viands and what not, Fetched from some greasy cookshop steaming hot.

There are two kinds of sauce; and I may say That each is worth attention in its way. Sweet oil's the staple of the first; but wine Should be thrown in, and strong Byzantine brine. Now take this compound, pickle, wine, and oil, Mix it with herbs chopped small, then make it boil, Put saffron in, and add, when cool, the juice Venafrum's choicest olive-yards produce. In taste Tiburtian apples count as worse Than Picene; in appearance, the reverse. For pots, Venucule grapes the best may suit: For drying, Albans are your safer fruit. 'Twas I who first, authorities declare, Served grapes with apples, lees with caviare, White pepper with black salt, and had them set Before each diner as his private whet.

'Tis gross to squander hundreds upon fish, Yet pen them cooked within too small a dish. So too it turns the stomach, if there sticks Dirt to the bowl wherein your wine you mix; Or if the servant, who behind you stands, Has fouled the beaker with his greasy hands. Brooms, dish-cloths, saw-dust, what a mite they cost! Neglect them though, your reputation's lost. What? sweep with dirty broom a floor inlaid, Spread unwashed cloths o'er tapestry and brocade, Forgetting, sure, the less such things entail Of care and cost, the more the shame to fail, Worse than fall short in luxuries, which one sees At no man's table but your rich grandees'?

H. Catius, I beg, by all that binds a friend, Let me go with you, when you next attend; For though you've every detail at command, There's something must be lost at second hand. Then the man's look, his manner—these may seem Mere things of course, perhaps, in your esteem, So privileged as you are: for me, I feel An inborn thirst, a more than common zeal, Up to the distant river-head to mount, And quaff these precious waters at their fount.



SATIRE V.

HOC QUOQUE, TIRESIA.

ULYSSES. TIRESIAS.

ULYSSES

Now, good Tiresias, add one favour more To those your kindness has vouchsafed before, And tell me by what ways I may redeem My broken fortunes—You're amused, 'twould seem.

T. You get safe home, you see your native isle, And yet it craves for more, that heart of guile!

U. O source of truth unerring, you're aware, I reach my home impoverished and stripped bare (So you predict), and find nor bit nor sup, My flocks all slaughtered and my wines drunk up: Yet family and worth, without the staff Of wealth to lean on, are the veriest draff.

T. Since, in plain terms, 'tis poverty you fear, And riches are your aim, attend and hear. Suppose a thrush or other dainty placed At your disposal, for your private taste, Speed it to some great house, all gems and gold, Where means are ample, and their master old: Your choicest apples, ripe and full of juice, And whatsoe'er your garden may produce, Before they're offered at the Lares' shrine, Give them to your rich friend, as more divine: Be he a branded slave, forsworn, distained With brother's blood, in short, a rogue ingrained, Yet walk, if asked, beside him when you meet, And (pray mind this) between him and the street.

U. What, give a slave the wall? in happier days, At Troy, for instance, these were not my ways: Then with the best I matched myself.

T. Indeed? I'm sorry: then you'll always be in need.

U. Well, well, my heart shall bear it; 'tis inured To dire adventure, and has worse endured. Go on, most worthy augur, and unfold The arts whereby to pile up heaps of gold.

T. Well, I have told you, and I tell you still: Lay steady siege to a rich dotard's will; Nor, should a fish or two gnaw round the bait, And 'scape the hook, lose heart and give up straight. A suit at law comes on: suppose you find One party's old and childless, never mind Though law with him's a weapon to oppress An upright neighbour, take his part no less: But spurn the juster cause and purer life, If burdened with a child or teeming wife. "Good Quintus," say, or "Publius" (nought endears A speaker more than this to slavish ears), "Your worth has raised you up a friend at court; I know the law, and can a cause support; I'd sooner lose an eye than aught should hurt, In purse or name, a man of your desert: Just leave the whole to me: I'll do my best To make you no man's victim, no man's jest." Bid him go home and nurse himself, while you Act as his counsel and his agent too; Hold on unflinching, never bate a jot, Be it for wet or dry, for cold or hot, Though "Sirius split dumb statues up," or though Fat Furius "spatter the bleak Alps with snow." "What steady nerve!" some bystander will cry, Nudging a friend; "what zeal! what energy! What rare devotion!" ay, the game goes well; In flow the tunnies, and your fish-ponds swell. Another plan: suppose a man of wealth Has but one son, and that in weakly health; Creep round the father, lest the court you pay To childless widowers your game betray, That he may put you second, and, in case The poor youth die, insert you in his place, And so you get the whole: a throw like this, Discreetly hazarded, will seldom miss. If offered by your friend his will to read, Decline it with a "Thank you! no, indeed!" Yet steal a side-long glance as you decline At the first parchment and the second line, Just to discover if he leaves you heir All by yourself, or others have a share. A constable turned notary oft will cheat Your raven of the cheese he thought to eat; And sly Nasica will become, you'll see, Coranus' joke, but not his legatee.

U. What? are you mad, or do you mean to balk My thirst for knowledge by this riddling talk?

T. O Laertiades! what I foreshow To mortals, either will take place or no; For 'tis the voice of Phoebus from his shrine That speaks in me and makes my words divine.

U. Forgive my vehemence, and kindly state The meaning of the fable you narrate.

T. When he, the Parthian's dread, whose blood comes down E'en from Aeneas' veins, shall win renown By land and sea, a marriage shall betide Between Coranus, wight of courage tried, And old Nasica's daughter, tall and large, Whose sire owes sums he never will discharge. The duteous son-in-law his will presents, And begs the sire to study its contents: At length Nasica, having long demurred, Takes it and reads it through without a word; And when the whole is done, perceives in fine That he and his are simply left—to whine.

Suppose some freedman, or some crafty dame Rules an old driveller, you may join their game: Say all that's good of them to him, that they, When your back's turned, the like of you may say This plan has merits; but 'tis better far To take the fort itself, and end the war.

A shrewd old crone at Thebes (the fact occurred When I was old) was thus by will interred: Her corpse was oiled all over, and her heir Bore it to burial on his shoulders bare: He'd stuck to her while living; so she said She'd give him, if she could, the slip when dead. Be cautious in attack; observe the mean, And neither be too lukewarm, nor too keen. Much talk annoys the testy and morose, But 'tis not well to be reserved and close. Act Davus in the drama: droop your head, And use the gestures of a man in dread. Be all attention: if the wind is brisk, Say, "Wrap that precious head up! run no risk!" Push shouldering through a crowd, the way to clear Before him; when he maunders, prick your ear. He craves for praise; administer the puff Till, lifting up both hands, he cries "Enough." But when, rewarded and released, at last You gain the end of all your service past, And, not in dreams but soberly awake, Hear "One full quarter let Ulysses take," Say, once or twice, "And is good Dama dead? Where shall I find his like for heart and head?" If possible, shed tears: at least conceal The tell-tale smiles that speak the joy you feel. Then, for the funeral: with your hands untied, Beware of erring upon meanness' side: No; let your friend be handsomely interred, And let the neighbourhood give you its good word. Should one of your co-heirs be old, and vexed With an inveterate cough, approach him next: A house or lands he'd purchase that belong To your estate: they're his for an old song. But Proserpine commands me; I must fly; Her will is law; I wish you health; good-bye.



SATIRE VI.

HOC ERAT IN VOTIS.

This used to be my wish: a bit of land, A house and garden with a spring at hand, And just a little wood. The gods have crowned My humble vows; I prosper and abound: Nor ask I more, kind Mercury, save that thou Wouldst give me still the goods thou giv'st me now: If crime has ne'er increased them, nor excess And want of thrift are like to make them less; If I ne'er pray like this, "O might that nook Which spoils my field be mine by hook or crook! O for a stroke of luck like his, who found A crock of silver, turning up the ground, And, thanks to good Alcides, farmed as buyer The very land where he had slaved for hire!" If what I have contents me, hear my prayer: Still let me feel thy tutelary care, And let my sheep, my pastures, this and that, My all, in fact, (except my brains,) be fat.

Now, lodged in my hill-castle, can I choose Companion fitter than my homely Muse? Here no town duties vex, no plague-winds blow, Nor Autumn, friend to graveyards, works me woe. Sire of the morning (do I call thee right, Or hear'st thou Janus' name with more delight?) Who introducest, so the gods ordain, Life's various tasks, inaugurate my strain. At Rome to bail I'm summoned. "Do your part," Thou bidd'st me; "quick, lest others get the start." So, whether Boreas roars, or winter's snow Clips short the day, to court I needs must go. I give the fatal pledge, distinct and loud, Then pushing, struggling, battle with the crowd. "Now, madman!" clamours some one, not without A threat or two, "just mind what you're about: What? you must knock down all that's in your way, Because you're posting to Maecenas, eh?" This pleases me, I own; but when I get To black Esquiliae, trouble waits me yet: For other people's matters in a swarm Buzz round my head and take my ears by storm. "Sir, Roscius would be glad if you'd arrange By eight a. m. to be with him on 'Change." "Quintus, the scribes entreat you to attend A meeting of importance, as their friend." "Just get Maecenas' seal attached to these." "I'll try." "O, you can do it, if you please." Seven years, or rather eight, have well-nigh passed Since with Maecenas' friends I first was classed, To this extent, that, driving through the street, He'd stop his car and offer me a seat, Or make such chance remarks as "What's o'clock?" "Will Syria's champion beat the Thracian cock?" "These morning frosts are apt to be severe;" Just chit-chat, suited to a leaky ear. Since that auspicious date, each day and hour Has placed me more and more in envy's power: "He joined his play, sat next him at the games: A child of Fortune!" all the world exclaims. From the high rostra a report comes down, And like a chilly fog, pervades the town: Each man I meet accosts me "Is it so? You live so near the gods, you're sure to know: That news about the Dacians? have you heard No secret tidings?" "Not a single word." "O yes! you love to banter us poor folk." "Nay, if I've heard a tittle, may I choke!" "Will Caesar grant his veterans their estates In Italy, or t'other side of the straits?" I swear that I know nothing, and am dumb: They think me deep, miraculously mum. And so my day between my fingers slips, While fond regrets keep rising to my lips: O my dear homestead in the country! when Shall I behold your pleasant face again; And, studying now, now dozing and at ease, Imbibe forgetfulness of all this tease? O when, Pythagoras, shall thy brother bean, With pork and cabbage, on my board be seen? O happy nights and suppers half divine, When, at the home-gods' altar, I and mine Enjoy a frugal meal, and leave the treat Unfinished for my merry slaves to eat! Not bound by mad-cap rules, but free to choose Big cups or small, each follows his own views: You toss your wine off boldly, if you please, Or gently sip, and mellow by degrees. We talk of—not our neighbour's house or field, Nor the last feat of Lepos, the light-heeled— But matters which to know concerns us more, Which none but at his peril can ignore; Whether 'tis wealth or virtue makes men blest, What leads to friendship, worth or interest, In what the good consists, and what the end And chief of goods, on which the rest depend: While neighbour Cervius, with his rustic wit, Tells old wives' tales, this case or that to hit. Should some one be unwise enough to praise Arellius' toilsome wealth, he straightway says: "One day a country mouse in his poor home Received an ancient friend, a mouse from Rome: The host, though close and careful, to a guest Could open still: so now he did his best. He spares not oats or vetches: in his chaps Raisins he brings and nibbled bacon-scraps, Hoping by varied dainties to entice His town-bred guest, so delicate and nice, Who condescended graciously to touch Thing after thing, but never would take much, While he, the owner of the mansion, sate On threshed-out straw, and spelt and darnels ate. At length the townsman cries: "I wonder how You can live here, friend, on this hill's rough brow: Take my advice, and leave these ups and downs, This hill and dale, for humankind and towns. Come now, go home with me: remember, all Who live on earth are mortal, great and small: Then take, good sir, your pleasure while you may; With life so short, 'twere wrong to lose a day." This reasoning made the rustic's head turn round; Forth from his hole he issues with a bound, And they two make together for their mark, In hopes to reach the city during dark. The midnight sky was bending over all, When they set foot within a stately hall, Where couches of wrought ivory had been spread With gorgeous coverlets of Tyrian red, And viands piled up high in baskets lay, The relics of a feast of yesterday. The townsman does the honours, lays his guest At ease upon a couch with crimson dressed, Then nimbly moves in character of host, And offers in succession boiled and roast; Nay, like a well-trained slave, each wish prevents, And tastes before the tit-bits he presents. The guest, rejoicing in his altered fare, Assumes in turn a genial diner's air, When hark! a sudden banging of the door: Each from his couch is tumbled on the floor: Half dead, they scurry round the room, poor things, While the whole house with barking mastiffs rings. Then says the rustic: "It may do for you, This life, but I don't like it; so adieu: Give me my hole, secure from all alarms, I'll prove that tares and vetches still have charms."



SATIRE VII.

JAMDUDUM AUSCULTO.

DAVUS. HORACE.

DAVUS.

I've listened long, and fain a word would say, But, as a slave, I dare not.

H. Davus, eh?

D. Yes, Davus, true and faithful, good enough, But not too good to be of lasting stuff.

H. Well, take December's licence: I'll not balk Our fathers' good intentions: have your talk.

D. Some men there are take pleasure in what's ill Persistently, and do it with a will: The greater part keep wavering to and fro, And now all right, and now all wrong they go. Prisons, we all remember, oft would wear Three rings at once, then show his finger bare; First he'd be senator, then knight, and then In an hour's time a senator again; Flit from a palace to a crib so mean, A decent freedman scarce would there be seen; Now with Athenian wits he'd make his home, Now live with scamps and profligates at Rome; Born in a luckless hour, when every face Vertumnus wears was pulling a grimace. Shark Volanerius tried to disappoint The gout that left his fingers ne'er a joint By hiring some one at so much per day To shake the dicebox while he sat at play; Consistent in his faults, so less a goose Than your poor wretch who shifts from fast to loose.

H. For whom d'ye mean this twaddle, tell me now, You hang-dog?

D. Why, for you.

H. Good varlet, how?

D. You praise the life that people lived of old, When Rome was frugal and the age was gold, And yet, if on a sudden forced to dwell With men like those, you'd strenuously rebel, Either because you don't believe at heart That what you bawl for is the happier part, Or that you can't act out what you avow, But stand with one foot sticking in the slough. At Rome you hanker for your country home; Once in the country, there's no place like Rome. If not asked out to supper, then you bless The stars that let you eat your quiet mess, Vow that engagements are mere clogs, and think You're happy that you've no one's wine to drink. But should Maecenas, somewhat late, invite His favourite bard to come by candle-light, "Bring me the oil this instant! is there none Hears me?" you scream, and in a trice are gone: While Milvius and his brother beasts of prey, With curses best not quoted, walk away. Yet what says Milvius? "Honest truth to tell, I turn my nose up at a kitchen's smell; I'm guided by my stomach; call me weak, Coward, tavern-spunger, still by book you'll speak. But who are you to treat me to your raps? You're just as bad as I, nay worse perhaps, Though you've a cloak of decent words, forsooth, To throw at pleasure o'er the ugly truth." What if at last a greater fool you're found Than I, the slave you bought for twenty pound? Nay, nay, don't scare me with that threatening eye: Unclench your fist and lay your anger by, While I retail the lessons which of late The porter taught me at Crispinus' gate.

You're no adulterer:—nor a thief am I, When I see plate and wisely pass it by: But take away the danger, in a trice Nature unbridled plunges into vice. What? you to be my master, who obey More persons, nay, more things than words can say, Whom not the praetor's wand, though four times waved, Could make less tyrant-ridden, less enslaved? Press home the matter further: how d'ye call The thrall who's servant to another thrall? An understrapper, say; the name will do; Or fellow-servant: such am I to you: For you, whose work I do, do others' work, And move as dolls move when their wires we jerk.

Who then is free? The sage, who keeps in check His baser self, who lives at his own beck, Whom neither poverty nor dungeon drear Nor death itself can ever put in fear, Who can reject life's goods, resist desire, Strong, firmly braced, and in himself entire, A hard smooth ball that gives you ne'er a grip, 'Gainst whom when Fortune runs, she's sure to trip. Such are the marks of freedom: look them through, And tell me, is there one belongs to you? Your mistress begs for money, plagues you sore, Ducks you with water, drives you from her door, Then calls you back: break the vile bondage; cry "I'm free, I'm free."—Alas, you cannot. Why? There's one within you, armed with spur and stick, Who turns and drives you, howsoe'er you kick.

On one of Pausias' masterworks you pore, As you were crazy: what does Davus more, Standing agape and straining knees and eyes At some rude sketch of fencers for a prize, Where, drawn in charcoal or red ochre, just As if alive, they parry and they thrust? Davus gets called a loiterer and a scamp, You (save the mark!) a critic of high stamp. If hot sweet-cakes should tempt me, I am naught: Do you say no to dainties as you ought? Am I worse trounced than you when I obey My stomach? true, my back is made to pay: But when you let rich tit-bits pass your lip That cost no trifle, do you 'scape the whip? Indulging to excess, you loathe your meat, And the bloat trunk betrays the gouty feet.

The lad's a rogue who goes by night to chop A stolen flesh-brush at a fruiterer's shop: The man who sells a farm to buy good fare, Is there no slavery to the stomach there?

Then too you cannot spend an hour alone; No company's more hateful than your own; You dodge and give yourself the slip; you seek In bed or in your cups from care to sneak: In vain: the black dog follows you, and hangs Close on your flying skirts with hungry fangs.

H. Where's there a stone?

D. Who wants it?

H. Or a pike?

D. Mere raving this, or verse-making belike.

H. Unless you're off at once, you'll join the eight Who do their digging down at my estate.



SATIRE VIII.

UT NASIDIENI.

HORACE. FUNDANIUS.

HORACE.

That rich Nasidienus—let me hear How yesterday you relished his good cheer: For when I tried to get you, I was told You'd been there since the day was six hours old.

F. O, 'twas the finest treat.

H. Inform me, pray, What first was served your hunger to allay.

F. First a Lucanian boar; 'twas captured wild (So the host told us) when the wind was mild; Around it, turnips, lettuce, radishes, By way of whet, with brine and Coan lees. Then, when the board, a maple one, was cleared, A high-girt slave with purple cloth appeared And rubbed and wiped it clean: another boy Removed the scraps, and all that might annoy: "While dark Hydaspes, like an Attic maid Who carries Ceres' basket, grave and staid, Came in with Caecuban, and, close behind, Alcon with Chian, which had ne'er been brined. Then said our host: "If Alban you'd prefer, Maecenas, or Falern, we have them, Sir."

H. What sorry riches! but I fail to glean Who else was present at so rare a scene.

F. Myself at top, then Viscus, and below Was Varius: after us came Balatro, Vibidius also, present at the treat Unasked, as members of Maecenas' suite. Porcius and Nomentanus last, and he, Our host, who lay betwixt them, made the three: Porcius the undermost, a witty droll, Who makes you laugh by swallowing cheesecakes whole: While Nomentanus' specialty was this, To point things out that vulgar eyes might miss; For fish and fowl, in fact whate'er was placed Before us, had, we found, a novel taste, As one experiment sufficed to show, Made on a flounder and a turbot's roe. Then, turning the discourse to fruit, he treats Of the right time for gathering honey-sweets; Plucked when the moon's on wane, it seems they're red; For further details see the fountain-head. When thus to Balatro Vibidius: "Fie! Let's drink him out, or unrevenged we die; Here, bigger cups." Our entertainer's cheek Turned deadly white, as thus he heard him speak; For of the nuisances that can befall A man like him, your toper's worst of all, Because, you know, hot wines do double wrong; They dull the palate, and they edge the tongue. On go Vibidius and his mate, and tilt Whole flagons into cups Allifae-built: We follow suit: the host's two friends alone Forbore to treat the wine-flask as their own.

A lamprey now appears, a sprawling fish, With shrimps about it swimming in the dish. Whereon our host remarks: "This fish was caught While pregnant: after spawning it is naught. We make our sauce with oil, of the best strain Venafrum yields, and caviare from Spain, Pour in Italian wine, five years in tun, While yet 'tis boiling; when the boiling's done, Chian suits best of all; white pepper add, And vinegar, from Lesbian wine turned bad. Rockets and elecampanes with this mess To boil, is my invention, I profess: To put sea-urchins in, unwashed as caught, 'Stead of made pickle, was Curtillus' thought."

Meantime the curtains o'er the table spread Came tumbling in a heap from overhead, Dragging withal black dust in whirlwinds, more Than Boreas raises on Campania's floor: We, when the shock is over, smile to see The danger less than we had feared 'twould be, And breathe again. Poor Rufus drooped his head And wept so sore, you'd think his son was dead: And things seemed hastening to a tragic end, But Nomentanus thus consoled his friend: "O Fortune, cruellest of heavenly powers, Why make such game of this poor life of ours?" Varius his napkin to his mouth applied, A laugh to stifle, or at least to hide: But Balatro, with his perpetual sneer, Cries, "Such is life, capricious and severe, And hence it comes that merit never gains A meed of praise proportioned to its pains. What gross injustice! just that I may get A handsome dinner, you must fume and fret, See that the bread's not burned, the sauce not spoiled, The servants in their places, curled and oiled. Then too the risks; the tapestry, as of late, May fall; a stumbling groom may break a plate. But gifts, concealed by sunshine, are displayed In hosts, as in commanders, by the shade." Rufus returned, "Heaven speed things to your mind! Sure ne'er was guest so friendly and so kind;" Then takes his slippers. Head to head draws near, And each man's lips are at his neighbour's ear.

H. 'Tis better than a play: but please report What further things occurred to make you sport.

F. Well, while Vibidius takes the slaves to task, Enquiring if the tumble broke the flask, And Balatro keeps starting some pretence For mirth, that we may laugh without offence, With altered brow returns our sumptuous friend, Resolved, what chance has damaged, art shall mend. More servants follow, staggering 'neath the load Of a huge dish where limbs of crane were stowed, Salted and floured; a goose's liver, crammed To twice its bulk, so close the figs were jammed; And wings of hares dressed separate, better so Than eaten with the back, as gourmands know. Then blackbirds with their breasts all burnt to coal, And pigeons without rumps, not served up whole, Dainties, no doubt, but then there came a speech About the laws and properties of each; At last the feeder and the food we quit, Taking revenge by tasting ne'er a bit, As if Canidia's mouth had breathed an air Of viperous poison on the whole affair.



THE EPISTLES.

BOOK I.

I. To Maecenas.

PRIMA DICTE MIHI.

Theme of my earliest Muse in days long past, Theme that shall be hereafter of my last, Why summon back, Maecenas, to the list Your worn-out swordsman, pensioned and dismissed? My age, my mind, no longer are the same As when I first was 'prenticed to the game. Veianius fastens to Alcides' gate His arms, then nestles in his snug estate: Think you once more upon the arena's marge He'd care to stand and supplicate discharge? No: I've a Mentor who, not once nor twice, Breathes in my well-rinsed ear his sound advice, "Give rest in time to that old horse, for fear At last he founder 'mid the general jeer." So now I bid my idle songs adieu, And turn my thoughts to what is right and true; I search and search, and when I find, I lay The wisdom up against a rainy day.

But what's my sect? you ask me; I must be A member sure of some fraternity: Why no; I've taken no man's shilling; none Of all your fathers owns me for his son; Just where the weather drives me, I invite Myself to take up quarters for the night. Now, all alert, I cope with life's rough main, A loyal follower in true virtue's train: Anon, to Aristippus' camp I flit, And say, the world's for me, not I for it.

Long as the night to him whose love is gone, Long as the day to slaves that must work on, Slow as the year to the impatient ward Who finds a mother's tutelage too hard, So long, so slow the moments that prevent The execution of my high intent, Of studying truths that rich and poor concern, Which young and old are lost unless they learn. Well, if I cannot be a student, yet There's good in spelling at the alphabet. Your eyes will never see like Lynceus'; still You rub them with an ointment when they're ill: You cannot hope for Glyco's stalwart frame, Yet you'd avoid the gout that makes you lame. Some point of moral progress each may gain, Though to aspire beyond it should prove vain.

Say, is your bosom fevered with the fire Of sordid avarice or unchecked desire? Know, there are spells will help you to allay The pain, and put good part of it away. You're bloated by ambition? take advice; Yon book will ease you if you read it thrice. Run through the list of faults; whate'er you be, Coward, pickthank, spitfire, drunkard, debauchee, Submit to culture patiently, you'll find Her charms can humanize the rudest mind.

To fly from vice is virtue: to be free From foolishness is wisdom's first degree. Think of some ill you feel a real disgrace, The loss of money or the loss of place; To keep yourself from these, how keen the strain! How dire the sweat of body and of brain! Through tropic heat, o'er rocks and seas you run To furthest India, poverty to shun, Yet scorn the sage who offers you release From vagrant wishes that disturb your peace. Take some provincial pugilist, who gains A paltry cross-way prize for all his pains; Place on his brow Olympia's chaplet, earned Without a struggle, would the gift be spurned?

Gold counts for more than silver, all men hold: Why doubt that virtue counts for more than gold? "Seek money first, good friends, and virtue next," Each Janus lectures on the well-worn text; Lads learn it for their lessons; grey-haired men, Like schoolboys, drawl the sing-song o'er again. You lack, say, some six thousand of the rate The law has settled as a knight's estate; Though soul, tongue, morals, credit, all the while Are yours, you reckon with the rank and file. But mark those children at their play; they sing, "Deal fairly, youngster, and we'll crown you king." Be this your wall of brass, your coat of mail, A guileless heart, a cheek no crime turns pale.

"Which is the better teacher, tell me, pray, The law of Roscius, or the children's lay That crowns fair dealing, by Camillus trolled, And manly Curius, in the days of old; The voice that says, "Make money, money, man; Well, if so be,—if not, which way you can," That from a nearer distance you may gaze At honest Pupius' all too moving plays; Or that which bids you meet with dauntless brow, The frowns of Fortune, aye, and shows you how?

Suppose the world of Rome accosts me thus: "You walk where we walk; why not think with us, Be ours for better or for worse, pursue The things we love, the things we hate eschew?" I answer as sly Reynard answered, when The ailing lion asked him to his den: "I'm frightened at those footsteps: every track Leads to your home, but ne'er a one leads back." Nay, you're a perfect Hydra: who shall choose Which view to follow out of all your views? Some farm the taxes; some delight to see Their money grow by usury, like a tree; Some bait a widow-trap with fruits and cakes, And net old men, to stock their private lakes. But grant that folks have different hobbies; say, Does one man ride one hobby one whole day? "Baiae's the place!" cries Croesus: all is haste; The lake, the sea, soon feel their master's taste: A new whim prompts: 'tis "Pack your tools tonight! Off for Teanum with the dawn of light!" The nuptial bed is in his hall; he swears None but a single life is free from cares: Is he a bachelor? all human bliss, He vows, is centred in a wedded kiss.

How shall I hold this Proteus in my gripe? How fix him down in one enduring type? Turn to the poor: their megrims are as strange; Bath, cockloft, barber, eating-house, they change; They hire a boat; your born aristocrat Is not more squeamish, tossing in his yacht.

If, when we meet, I'm cropped in awkward style By some uneven barber, then you smile; You smile, if, as it haps, my gown's askew, If my shirt's ragged while my tunic's new: How, if my mind's inconsequent, rejects What late it longed for, what it loathed affects, Shifts every moment, with itself at strife, And makes a chaos of an ordered life, Builds castles up, then pulls them to the ground, Keeps changing round for square and square for round? You smile not; 'tis an every-day affair; I need no doctor's, no, nor keeper's care: Yet you're my patron, and would blush to fail In taking notice of an ill-pared nail.

So, to sum up: the sage is half divine, Rich, free, great, handsome, king of kings, in fine; A miracle of health from toe to crown, Mind, heart, and head, save when his nose runs down.



II. TO LOLLIUS.

TROJANI BELLI SCRIPTOREM.

While you at Rome, dear Lollius, train your tongue, I at Praeneste read what Homer sung: What's good, what's bad, what helps, what hurts, he shows Better in verse than Crantor does in prose. The reason why I think so, if you'll spare A moment from your business, I'll declare.

The tale that tells how Greece and Asia strove In tedious battle all for Paris' love, Talks of the passions that excite the brain Of mad-cap kings and peoples not more sane. Antenor moves to cut away the cause Of all their sufferings: does he gain applause? No; none shall force young Paris to enjoy Life, power and riches in his own fair Troy. Nestor takes pains the quarrel to compose That makes Atrides and Achilles foes: In vain; their passions are too strong to quell; Both burn with wrath, and one with love as well. Let kings go mad and blunder as they may, The people in the end are sure to pay. Strife, treachery, crime, lust, rage, 'tis error all, One mass of faults within, without the wall.

Turn to the second tale: Ulysses shows How worth and wisdom triumph over woes: He, having conquered Troy, with sharp shrewd ken Explores the manners and the towns of men; On the broad ocean, while he strives to win For him and his return to home and kin, He braves untold calamities, borne down By Fortune's waves, but never left to drown. The Sirens' song you know, and Circe's bowl: Had that sweet draught seduced his stupid soul As it seduced his fellows, he had been The senseless chattel of a wanton queen, Sunk to the level of his brute desire, An unclean dog, a swine that loves the mire. But what are we? a mere consuming class, Just fit for counting roughly in the mass, Like to the suitors, or Alcinous' clan, Who spent vast pains upon the husk of man, Slept on till mid-day, and enticed their care To rest by listening to a favourite air.

Robbers get up by night, men's throats to knive: Will you not wake to keep yourself alive? Well, if you will not stir when sound, at last, When dropsical, you'll be for moving fast: Unless you light your lamp ere dawn and read Some wholesome book that high resolves may breed, You'll find your sleep go from you, and will toss Upon your pillow, envious, lovesick, cross. You lose no time in taking out a fly, Or straw, it may be, that torments your eye; Why, when a thing devours your mind, adjourn Till this day year all thought of the concern? Come now, have courage to be wise: begin: You're halfway over when you once plunge in: He who puts off the time for mending, stands A clodpoll by the stream with folded hands, Waiting till all the water be gone past; But it runs on, and will, while time shall last. "Aye, but I must have money, and a bride To bear me children, rich and well allied: Those uncleared lands want tilling." Having got What will suffice you, seek no happier lot. Not house or grounds, not heaps of brass or gold Will rid the frame of fever's heat and cold. Or cleanse the heart of care. He needs good health, Body and mind, who would enjoy his wealth: Who fears or hankers, land and country-seat Soothe just as much as tickling gouty feet, As pictures charm an eye inflamed and blear, As music gratifies an ulcered ear.

Unless the vessel whence we drink is pure, Whate'er is poured therein turns foul, be sure. Make light of pleasure: pleasure bought with pain Yields little profit, but much more of bane. The miser's always needy: draw a line Within whose bound your wishes to confine. His neighbour's fatness makes the envious lean: No tyrant e'er devised a pang so keen. Who governs not his wrath will wish undone The deeds he did "when the rash mood was on." Wrath is a short-lived madness: curb and bit Your mind: 'twill rule you, if you rule not it

While the colt's mouth is soft, the trainer's skill Moulds it to follow at the rider's will. Soon as the whelp can bay the deer's stuffed skin, He takes the woods, and swells the hunters' din. Now, while your system's plastic, ope each pore; Now seek wise friends, and drink in all their lore: The smell that's first imparted will adhere To seasoned jars through many an after year.

But if you lag behind or head me far, Don't think I mean to mend my pace, or mar; In my own jog-trot fashion on I go, Not vying with the swift, not waiting for the slow.



III. TO JULIUS FLORUS.

JULI FLORE.

Florus, I wish to learn, but don't know how, Where Claudius and his troops are quartered now. Say, is it Thrace and Haemus' winter snows, Or the famed strait 'twixt tower and tower that flows, Or Asia's rich exuberance of plain And upland slope, that holds you in its chain? Inform me too (for that, you will not doubt, Concerns me), what the ingenious staff's about: Who writes of Caesar's triumphs, and portrays The tale of peace and war for future days? How thrives friend Titius, who will soon become A household word in the saloons of Rome; Who dares to drink of Pindar's well, and looks With scorn on our cheap tanks and vulgar brooks? Wastes he a thought on Horace? does he suit The strains of Thebes or Latium's virgin lute, By favour of the Muse, or grandly rage And roll big thunder on the tragic stage? What is my Celsus doing? oft, in truth, I've warned him, and he needs it yet, good youth, To trust himself, nor touch the classic stores That Palatine Apollo keeps indoors, Lest when some day the feathered tribe resumes (You know the tale) the appropriated plumes, Folks laugh to see him act the jackdaw's part, Denuded of the dress that looked so smart.

And you, what aims are yours? what thymy ground Allures the bee to hover round and round? Not small your wit, nor rugged and unkempt; 'Twill answer bravely to a bold attempt: Whether you train for pleading, or essay To practise law, or frame some graceful lay, The ivy-wreath awaits you. Could you bear To leave quack nostrums, that but palliate care, Then might you lean on heavenly wisdom's hand And use her guidance to a loftier land. Be this our task, whate'er our station, who To country and to self would fain be true.

This too concerns me: does Munatius hold In Florus' heart the place he held of old, Or is that ugly breach in your good will We hoped had closed unhealed and gaping still? Well, be it youth or ignorance of life That sets your hot ungoverned bloods at strife, Where'er you bide, 'twere shame to break the ties Which made you once sworn brethren and allies: So, when your safe return shall come to pass, I've got a votive heifer out at grass.



IV. TO ALBIUS TIBULLUS

ALBI, NOSTRORUM.

Albius, kind critic of my satires, say, What do you down at Pedum far away? Are you composing what will dim the shine Of Cassius' works, so delicately fine, Or sauntering, calm and healthful, through the wood, Bent on such thoughts as suit the wise and good? No brainless trunk is yours: a form to please, Wealth, wit to use it, Heaven vouchsafes you these. What could fond nurse wish more for her sweet pet Than friends, good looks, and health without a let, A shrewd clear head, a tongue to speak his mind, A seemly household, and a purse well-lined?

Let hopes and sorrows, fears and angers be, And think each day that dawns the last you'll see; For so the hour that greets you unforeseen Will bring with it enjoyment twice as keen.

Ask you of me? you'll laugh to find me grown A hog of Epicurus, full twelve stone.



V. TO TORQUATUS.

SI POTES ARCHIACIS.

If you can lie, Torquatus, when you take Your meal, upon a couch of Archias' make, And sup off potherbs, gathered as they come, You'll join me, please, by sunset at my home. My wine, not far from Sinuessa grown, Is but six years in bottle, I must own: If you've a better vintage, send it here, Or take your cue from him who finds the cheer. My hearth is swept, my household looks its best, And all my furniture expects a guest. Forego your dreams of riches and applause, Forget e'en Moschus' memorable cause; To-morrow's Caesar's birthday, which we keep By taking, to begin with, extra sleep; So, if with pleasant converse we prolong This summer night, we scarcely shall do wrong.

Why should the Gods have put me at my ease, If I mayn't use my fortune as I please? The man who stints and pinches for his heir Is next-door neighbour to a fool, I'll swear. Here, give me flowers to strew, my goblet fill, And let men call me mad-cap if they will. O, drink is mighty! secrets it unlocks, Turns hope to fact, sets cowards on to box, Takes burdens from the careworn, finds out parts In stupid folks, and teaches unknown arts. What tongue hangs fire when quickened by the bowl? What wretch so poor but wine expands his soul?

Meanwhile, I'm bound in duty, nothing both, To see that nought in coverlet or cloth May give you cause to sniff, that dish and cup May serve you as a mirror while you sup; To have my guests well-sorted, and take care That none is present who'll tell tales elsewhere. You'll find friend Butra and Septicius here, Ditto Sabinus, failing better cheer: And each might bring a friend or two as well, But then, you know, close packing's apt to smell. Come, name your number, and elude the guard Your client keeps by slipping through the yard.



VI. TO NUMICIUS.

NIL ADMIRARI.

Not to admire, Numicius, is the best, The only way, to make and keep men blest. The sun, the stars, the seasons of the year That come and go, some gaze at without fear: What think you of the gifts of earth and sea, The untold wealth of Ind or Araby, Or, to come nearer home, our games and shows, The plaudits and the honours Rome bestows? How should we view them? ought they to convulse The well-strung frame and agitate the pulse? Who fears the contrary, or who desires The things themselves, in either case admires; Each way there's flutter; something unforeseen Disturbs the mind that else had been serene. Joy, grief, desire or fear, whate'er the name The passion bears, its influence is the same; Where things exceed your hope or fall below, You stare, look blank, grow numb from top to toe. E'en virtue's self, if followed to excess, Turns right to wrong, good sense to foolishness.

Go now, my friend, drink in with all your eyes Bronze, silver, marble, gems, and Tyrian dyes, Feel pride when speaking in the sight of Rome, Go early out to 'Change and late come home, For fear your income drop beneath the rate That comes to Mutus from his wife's estate, And (shame and scandal!), though his line is new, You give the pas to him, not he to you. Whate'er is buried mounts at last to light, While things get hid in turn that once looked bright. So when Agrippa's mall and Appius' way Have watched your well-known figure day by day, At length the summons comes, and you must go To Numa and to Ancus down below.

Your side's in pain; a doctor hits the blot: You wish to live aright (and who does not?); If virtue holds the secret, don't defer; Be off with pleasure, and be on with her. But no; you think all morals sophists' tricks, Bring virtue down to words, a grove to sticks; Then hey for wealth! quick, quick, forestall the trade With Phrygia and the East, your fortune's made. One thousand talents here—one thousand there— A third—a fourth, to make the thing four-square. A dowried wife, friends, beauty, birth, fair fame, These are the gifts of money, heavenly dame: Be but a moneyed man, persuasion tips Your tongue, and Venus settles on your lips. The Cappadocian king has slaves enow, But gold he lacks: so be it not with you. Lucullus was requested once, they say, A hundred scarves to furnish for the play: "A hundred!" he replied, "'tis monstrous; still I'll look; and send you what I have, I will." Ere long he writes: "Five thousand scarves I find; Take part of them, or all if you're inclined." That's a poor house where there's not much to spare Which masters never miss and servants wear. So, if 'tis wealth that makes and keeps us blest, Be first to start and last to drop the quest.

If power and mob-applause be man's chief aims, Let's hire a slave to tell us people's names, To jog us on the side, and make us reach, At risk of tumbling down, a hand to each: "This rules the Fabian, that the Veline clan; Just as he likes, he seats or ousts his man:" Observe their ages, have your greeting pat, And duly "brother" this, and "father" that.

Say that the art to live's the art to sup, Go fishing, hunting, soon as sunlight's up, As did Gargilius, who at break of day Swept with his nets and spears the crowded way, Then, while all Rome looked on in wonder, brought Home on a single mule a boar he'd bought. Thence pass on to the bath-room, gorged and crude, Our stomachs stretched with undigested food, Lost to all self-respect, all sense of shame, Disfranchised freemen, Romans but in name, Like to Ulysses' crew, that worthless band, Who cared for pleasure more than fatherland.

If, as Mimnermus tells you, life is flat With nought to love, devote yourself to that.

Farewell: if you can mend these precepts, do: If not, what serves for me may serve for you.



VII. TO MAECENAS.

QUINQUE DIES TIBI POLLICITUS.

Five days I told you at my farm I'd stay, And lo! the whole of August I'm away. Well, but, Maecenas, yon would have me live, And, were I sick, my absence you'd forgive; So let me crave indulgence for the fear Of falling ill at this bad time of year, When, thanks to early figs and sultry heat, The undertaker figures with his suite, When fathers all and fond mammas grow pale At what may happen to their young heirs male, And courts and levees, town-bred mortals' ills, Bring fevers on, and break the seals of wills. When winter strews the Alban fields with snow, Down to the sea your chilly bard will go, There keep the house and study at his ease, All huddled up together, nose and knees: With the first swallow, if you'll have him then, He'll come, dear friend, and visit you again.

Not like the coarse Calabrian boor, who pressed His store of pears upon a sated guest, Have you bestowed your favours. "Eat them, pray." "I've done." "Then carry all you please away." "I thank you, no." "Your boys won't like you less For taking home a sack of them, I guess." "I could not thank you more if I took all." "Ah well, if you won't eat them, the pigs shall." 'Tis silly prodigality, to throw Those gifts broadcast whose value you don't know: Such tillage yields ingratitude, and will, While human nature is the soil you till. A wise good man has ears for merit's claim, Yet does not reckon brass and gold the same. I also will "assume desert," and prove I value him whose bounty speaks his love.

If you would keep me always, give me back My sturdy sides, my clustering locks of black, My pleasant voice and laugh, the tears I shed That night when Cinara from the table fled. A poor pinched field-mouse chanced to make its way Through a small rent in a wheat-sack one day, And, having gorged and stuffed, essayed in vain To squeeze its body through the hole again: "Ah!" cried a weasel, "wait till you get thin; Then, if you will, creep out as you crept in." Well, if to me the story folks apply, I give up all I've got without a sigh: Not mine to cram down guinea-fowls, and then Heap praises on the sleep of labouring men; Give me a country life and leave me free, I would not choose the wealth of Araby.

I've called you Father, praised your royal grace Behind your back as well as to your face; You've owned I have a conscience: try me now If I can quit your gifts with cheerful brow. That was a prudent answer which, we're told, The son of wise Ulysses made of old: "Our Ithaca is scarce the place for steeds; It has no level plains, no grassy meads: Atrides, if you'll let me, I'll decline A gift that better meets your wants than mine." Small things become small folks: imperial Rome Is all too large, too bustling for a home; The empty heights of Tibur, or the bay Of soft Tarentum, more are in my way.

Philip, the famous counsel, years ago, Was moving home at two, sedate and slow, Old, and fatigued with pleading at the bar, And grumbling that he lived away so far, When suddenly he chanced his eye to drop On a spruce personage in a barber's shop, Who in the shopman's absence lounged at ease, Paring his nails as calmly as you please. "Demetrius"—so was called the slave he kept To do his errands, a well-trained adept— "Find out about that man for me; enquire His name and rank, his patron or his sire." He soon brings word that Mena is the name, An auction-crier, poor, but without blame, One who can work or idle, get or spend, Who loves his home and likes to see a friend, Enjoys the circus, and when work's got through, Hies to the field, and does as others do. "I'll hear the details from himself: go say I'll thank him if he'll sup with me to-day." Mena can scarce believe it; posed and mum He ponders; then, with thanks, declines to come. "What? does he dare to say me nay?" "Just so; Be it reserve or disrespect, 'tis no." Philip next morn finds Mena at a sale "Where odds and ends are going by retail, And greets him first. He, stammeringly profuse, Alleges ties of business in excuse For not by day-break knocking at his door, And last, for not observing him before. "Well, bygones shall be bygones, if so be You'll come this afternoon and sup with me." "I'm at your service." "Then 'twixt four and five You'll come: now go, and do your best to thrive." He's there in time; what comes into his head He chatters, right or wrong; then off to bed. So, when he'd learnt to nibble at the bait, At levee early and at supper late, One holiday he's bidden to come down With Philip to his villa out of town. Astride on horseback, both, he vows, are rare, The Sabine country and the Sabine air. Philip looks on and chuckles, his one aim To get a laugh by keeping up the game, Lends him seven hundred, gives him out of hand Seven more, and leads him on to buy some land. 'Tis bought: to make a lengthy tale concise, The man becomes a clown who once was nice, Talks all of elms and vineyards, ploughs and soil, And ages fast with struggling and sheer toil; Till, when his sheep are stolen, his bullock drops, His goats die off, a blight destroys his crops, One night he takes a waggon-horse, and sore With all his losses, rides to Philip's door. Philip perceives him squalid and unshorn, And cries, "Why, Mena! surely you look worn; You work too hard." "Nay, call me wretch," says he, "Good patron; 'tis the only name for me. So now, by all that's binding among men, I beg you, give me my old life again."

He that finds out he's changed his lot for worse, Let him betimes the untoward choice reverse: For still, when all is said, the rule stands fast, That each man's shoe be made on his own last.



VIII. TO CELSUS ALBINOVANUS.

CELSO GAUDERE.

Health to friend Celsus—so, good Muse, report— Who holds the pen in Nero's little court! If asked about me, say, I plan and plan, Yet live a useless and unhappy man: Sunstrokes have spared my olives, hail my vines; No herd of mine in far-off pasture pines: Yet ne'ertheless I suffer; hourly teased Less by a body than a mind diseased, No ear have I to hear, no heart to heed The words of wisdom that might serve my need, Frown on my doctors, with the friends am wroth Who fain would rouse me from my fatal sloth, Seek what has harmed me, shun what looks of use, Town-bird at Tibur, and at Rome recluse. Then ask him how his health is, how he fares, How prospers with the prince and his confreres. If he says Well, first tell him you rejoice, Then add one little hint (but drop your voice), "As Celsus bears his fortune well or ill, So bear with Celsus his acquaintance will."



IX. TO TIBERIUS CLAUDIUS NERO.

SEPTIMIUS, CLAUDI.

Septimius, Nero, seems to comprehend, As none else does, how you esteem your friend: For when he begs, nay, forces me, good man, To move you in his favour, if I can, As not unfit the heart and home to share Of Claudius, who selects his staff with care, Bidding me act as though I filled the place Of one you honour with your special grace, He sees and knows what I may safely try By way of influence better e'en than I. Believe me, many were the pleas I used In the vain hope to get myself excused: But then there came a natural fear, you know, Lest I should seem to rate my powers too low, To make a snug peculium of my own, And keep my influence for myself alone: So, fearing to incur more serious blame, I bronze my front, step down, and play my game. If then you praise the sacrifice I make In waiving modesty for friendship's sake, Admit him to your circle, when you've read These lines, and trust me for his heart and head.



X. TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS.

URBIS AMATOREM.

To Fuscus, lover of the city, I Who love the country, wish prosperity: In this one thing unlike, in all beside We might be twins, so nearly we're allied; Sharing each other's hates, each other's loves, We bill and coo, like two familiar doves. You keep the nest: I love the rural scene, Fresh runnels, moss-grown rocks, and woodland green. What would you more? once let me leave the things You praise so much, my life is like a king's: Like the priest's runaway, I cannot eat Your cakes, but pine for bread of wholesome wheat.

Now say that it behoves us to adjust Our lives to nature (wisdom says we must): You want a site for building: can you find A place that's like the country to your mind? Where have you milder winters? where are airs That breathe more grateful when the Dogstar glares, Or when the Lion feels in every vein The sun's sharp thrill, and maddens with the pain? Is there a spot where care contrives to keep At further distance from the couch of sleep? Is springing grass less sweet to nose or eyes Than Libyan marble's tesselated dyes? Does purer water strain your pipes of lead Than that which ripples down the brooklet's bed? Why, 'mid your Parian columns trees you train, And praise the house that fronts a wide domain. Drive Nature forth by force, she'll turn and rout The false refinements that would keep her out.

The luckless wight who can't tell side by side A Tyrian fleece from one Aquinum-dyed, Is not more surely, keenly, made to smart Than he who knows not truth and lies apart. Take too much pleasure in good things, you'll feel The shock of adverse fortune makes you reel. Regard a thing with wonder, with a wrench You'll give it up when bidden to retrench. Keep clear of courts: a homely life transcends The vaunted bliss of monarchs and their friends.

The stag was wont to quarrel with the steed, Nor let him graze in common on the mead: The steed, who got the worst in each attack, Asked help from man, and took him on his back: But when his foe was quelled, he ne'er got rid Of his new friend, still bridled and bestrid. So he who, fearing penury, loses hold Of independence, better far than gold, Will toil, a hopeless drudge, till life is spent, Because he'll never, never learn content. Means should, like shoes, be neither large nor small; Too wide, they trip us up, too strait, they gall.

Then live contented, Fuscus, nor be slow To give a friendly rap to one you know, Whene'er you find me struggling to increase My neat sufficiency, and ne'er at peace. Gold will be slave or master: 'tis more fit That it be led by us than we by it.

From tumble-down Vacuna's fane I write, Wanting but you to make me happy quite.



XI. TO BULLATIUS.

QUID TIBI VISA CHIOS?

How like you Chios, good Bullatius? what Think you of Lesbos, that world-famous spot? What of the town of Samos, trim and neat, And what of Sardis, Croesus' royal seat? Of Smyrna what and Colophon? are they Greater or less than travellers' stories say? Do all look poor beside our scenes at home, The field of Mars, the river of old Rome? Say, is your fancy fixed upon some town Which formed a gem in Attalus's crown? Or would you turn to Lebedus for ease In mere disgust at weary roads and seas? You know what Lebedus is like; so bare, With Gabii or Fidenae 'twould compare; Yet there, methinks, I would accept my lot, My friends forgetting, by my friends forgot, Stand on the cliff at distance, and survey The stormy sea-god's wild Titanic play. Yet he that comes from Capua, dashing in To Rome, all splashed and wetted to the skin, Though in a tavern glad one night to bide, Would not be pleased to live there till he died: If he gets cold, he lets his fancy rove In quest of bliss beyond a bath or stove: And you, though tossed just now by a stiff breeze, Don't therefore sell your vessel beyond seas.

But what are Rhodes and Lesbos, and the rest, E'en let a traveller rate them at their best? No more the wants of healthy minds they meet Than does a jersey in a driving sleet, A cloak in summer, Tiber through the snow, A chafing-dish in August's midday glow. So, while health lasts, and Fortune keeps her smiles, We'll pay our devoir to your Grecian isles, Praise them on this condition—that we stay In our own land, a thousand miles away.

Seize then each happy hour the gods dispense, Nor fix enjoyment for a twelvemonth hence. So may you testify with truth, where'er You're quartered, 'tis a pleasure to be there: For if the cure of mental ills is due To sense and wisdom, not a fine sea-view, We come to this; when o'er the world we range 'Tis but our climate, not our mind we change. What active inactivity is this, To go in ships and cars to search for bliss! No; what you seek, at Ulubrae you'll find, If to the quest you bring a balanced mind.



XII. TO Iccitus.

FRUCTIBUS AGRIPPAE.

If, worthy Iccius, properly you use What you collect, Agrippa's revenues, You're well supplied: and Jove himself could tell No way to make you better off than well. A truce to murmuring: with another's store To use at pleasure, who shall call you poor? Sides, stomach, feet, if these are all in health, What more could man procure with princely wealth?

If, with a well-spread table, when you dine, To plain green food your eating you confine, Though some fine day a rich Pactolian rill Should flood your house, you'd munch your pot-herbs still, From habit or conviction, which o'er-ride The power of gold, and league on virtue's side. No need to marvel at the stories told Of simple-sage Democritus of old, How, while his soul was soaring in the sky, The sheep got in and nibbled down his rye, When, spite of lucre's strong contagion, yet On lofty problems all your thoughts are set,— What checks the sea, what heats and cools the year, If law or impulse guides the starry sphere, "What power presides o'er lunar wanderings, What means the jarring harmony of things, Which after all is wise, and which the fool, Empedooles or the Stertinian school.

But whether you're for taking fishes' life, Or against leeks and onions whet your knife, Let Grosphus be your friend, and should he plead For aught he wants, anticipate his need: He'll never outstep reason; and you know, When good men lack, the price of friends is low.

But what of Rome? Agrippa has increased Her power in Spain, Tiberius in the East: Phraates, humbly bending on his knee, Submits himself to Csesar's sovereignty: While golden Plenty from her teeming horn Pours down on Italy abundant corn.



XIII. TO VINIUS ASELLA.

UT PROFICISCENTEM.

As I have told you oft, deliver these, My sealed-up volumes, to Augustus, please, Friend Vinius, if he's well and in good trim, And (one proviso more) if asked by him: Beware of over-zeal, nor discommend My works, by playing the impetuous friend. Suppose my budget, ere you get to town, Should gall you, better straightway throw it down Than, when you've reached the palace, fling the pack With animal impatience from your back, And so be thought in nature as in name Tour father's colt, and made some joker's game. Tour powers of tough endurance will avail With brooks and ponds to ford and hills to scale: But when you've quelled the perils of the road, Take special care how you adjust your load: Don't tuck beneath your arm these precious gifts, As drunken Pyrrhia does the wool she lifts, As rustics do a lamb, as humble wights Their cap and slippers when asked out at nights. Don't tell the world you've toiled and sweated hard In carrying lays which Caesar may regard: Push on, nor stop for questions. Now good bye; But pray don't trip, and smash the poetry.



XIV. TO HIS BAILIFF.

VILLICE SILVARUM.

Good bailiff of my farm, that snug domain Which makes its master feel himself again, Which, though you sniff at it, could once support Five hearths, and send five statesmen to the court, Let's have a match in husbandry; we'll try Which can do weeding better, you or I, And see if Horace more repays the hand That clears him of his thistles, or his land. Though here I'm kept administering relief To my poor Lamia's broken-hearted grief For his lost brother, ne'ertheless my thought Flies to my woods, and counts the distance nought. You praise the townsman's, I the rustic's state: Admiring others' lots, our own we hate: Each blames the place he lives in: but the mind Is most in fault, which ne'er leaves self behind. A town-house drudge, for farms you used to sigh; Now towns and shows and baths are all your cry: But I'm consistent with myself: you know I grumble, when to Rome I'm forced to go. Truth is, our standards differ: what your taste Condemns, forsooth, as so much savage waste, The man who thinks with Horace thinks divine, And hates the things which you believe so fine. I know your secret: 'tis the cook-shop breeds That lively sense of what the country needs: You grieve because this little nook of mine Would bear Arabian spice as soon as wine; Because no tavern happens to be nigh Where you can go and tipple on the sly, No saucy flute-girl, at whose jigging sound You bring your feet down lumbering to the ground. And yet, methinks, you've plenty on your hands In breaking up these long unharrowed lands; The ox, unyoked and resting from the plough, Wants fodder, stripped from elm or poplar bough; You've work too at the river, when there's rain, As, but for a strong bank,'twould flood the plain. Now have a little patience, you shall see What makes the gulf between yourself and me: I, who once wore gay clothes and well-dressed hair, I, who, though poor, could please a greedy fair, I, who could sit from mid-day o'er Falern, Now like short meals and slumbers by the burn: No shame I deem it to have had my sport; The shame had been in frolics not cut short. There at my farm I fear no evil eye; No pickthank blights my crops as he goes by; My honest neighbours laugh to see me wield A heavy rake, or dibble my own field. Were wishes wings, you'd join my slaves in town, And share the rations that they swallow down; While that sharp footboy envies you the use Of what my garden, flocks, and woods produce. The horse would plough, the ox would draw the car. No; do the work you know, and tarry where you are.



XV. TO C. NUMONIUS VALA.

QUAE SIT HIEMS VELIAE.

If Velia and Salernum tell me, pray, The climate, and the natives, and the way: For Baiae now is lost on me, and I, Once its staunch friend, am turned its enemy, Through Musa's fault, who makes me undergo His cold-bath treatment, spite of frost and snow. Good sooth, the town is filled with spleen, to see Its myrtle-groves attract no company; To find its sulphur-wells, which forced out pain From joint and sinew, treated with disdain By tender chests and heads, now grown so bold, They brave cold water in the depth of cold, And, finding down at Clusium what they want, Or Gabii, say, make that their winter haunt. Yes, I must change my quarters; my good horse Must pass the inns where once he stopped of course. "How now, you creature? I'm not bound to-day For Cumae or for Baiae," I shall say, Pulling the left rein angrily, because A horse when bridled listens through his jaws. Which place is best supplied with corn, d'ye think? Have they rain-water or fresh springs to drink? Their wines I care not for: when at my farm I can drink any sort without much harm; But at the sea I need a generous kind To warm my veins and pass into my mind, Enrich me with new hopes, choice words supply, And make me comely in a lady's eye. Which tract is best for game, on which sea-coast Urchins and other fish abound the most, That so, when I return, my friends may see A sleek Phaeacian come to life in me: These things you needs must tell me, Vala dear, And I no less must act on what I hear.

When Maenius, after nobly gobbling down His fortune, took to living on the town, A social beast of prey, with no fixed home, He ranged and ravened o'er the whole of Rome; His maw unfilled, he'd turn on friend and foe; None was too high for worrying, none too low; The scourge and murrain of each butcher's shop, Whate'er he got, he stuffed into his crop. So, when he'd failed in getting e'er a bit From those who liked or feared his wicked wit, Then down a throat of three-bear power he'd cram Plate after plate of offal, tripe or lamb, And swear, as Bestius might, your gourmand knaves Should have their stomachs branded like a slave's. But give the brute a piece of daintier prey, When all was done, he'd smack his lips and say, "In faith I cannot wonder, when I hear Of folks who waste a fortune on good cheer, For there's no treat in nature more divine Than a fat thrush or a big paunch of swine." I'm just his double: when my purse is lean I hug myself, and praise the golden mean, Stout when not tempted; but suppose some day A special titbit comes into my way, I vow man's happiness is ne'er complete Till based on a substantial country seat.



XVI. TO QUINCTIUS.

NE PERCONTERIS.

About my farm, dear Quinctius; you would know What sort of produce for its lord 'twill grow; Plough-land is it, or meadow-land, or soil For apples, vine-clad elms, or olive oil? So (but you'll think me garrulous) I'll write A full description of its form and site. In long continuous line the mountains run, Cleft by a valley which twice feels the sun, Once on the right when first he lifts his beams, Once on the left, when he descends in steams. You'd praise the climate: well, and what d'ye say To sloes and cornels hanging from the spray? What to the oak and ilex, that afford Fruit to the cattle, shelter to their lord? What, but that rich Tarentum must have been Transplanted nearer Rome with all its green? Then there's a fountain of sufficient size To name the river that takes thence its rise, Not Thracian Hebrus colder or more pure, Of power the head's and stomach's ills to cure. This sweet retirement—nay, 'tis more than sweet— Ensures my health e'en in September's heat.

And how fare you? if you deserve in truth The name men give you, you're a happy youth: Rome's thousand tongues, agreed at least in this, Ascribe to you a plenitude of bliss. Yet, when you judge of self, I fear you're prone To take another's word before your own, To think of happiness as 'twere a prize That men may win though neither good nor wise: Just so the glutton whom the world thinks well Keeps dark his fever till the dinner-bell; Then, as he's eating, with his hands well greased, Shivering comes on, and proves the fool diseased. O, 'tis a false, false shame that would conceal From doctors' eyes the sores it cannot heal!

Suppose a man should trumpet your success By land and sea, and make you this address: "May Jove, who watches with the same good-will O'er you and Rome, preserve the secret still, Whether the heart within you beats more true To Rome and to her sons, or theirs to you!" Howe'er your ears might flatter you, you'd say The praise was Caesar's, and had gone astray. Yet should the town pronounce you wise and good, You'd take it to yourself, you know you would. "Take it? of course I take it," you reply; "You love the praise yourself, then why not I?" Aye, but the town, that gives you praise to-day, Next week can snatch it, if it please, away, As in elections it can mend mistakes, And whom it makes one year, the next unmakes. "Lay down the fasces," it exclaims; "they're mine:" I lay them down, and sullenly resign. Well now, if "Thief" and "Profligate" they roar, Or lay my father's murder at my door, Am I to let their lying scandals bite And change my honest cheeks from red to white? Trust me, false praise has charms, false blame has pains But for vain hearts, long ears, and addled brains.

Whom call we good? The man who keeps intact Each law, each right, each statute and each act, Whose arbitration terminates dispute, Whose word's a bond, whose witness ends a suit. Yet his whole house and all the neighbours know He's bad at heart, despite his decent show. "I," says a slave, "ne'er ran away nor stole:" Well, what of that? say I: your skin is whole. "I've shed no blood." You shall not feed the orow. "I'm good and true." We Sabine folks say No: The wolf avoids the pit, the hawk the snare, And hidden hooks teach fishes to beware. 'Tis love of right that keeps the good from wrong; You do no harm because you fear the thong; Could you be sure that no one would detect, E'en sacrilege might tempt you, I suspect. Steal but one bean, although the loss be small, The crime's as great as if you stole them all.

See your good man, who oft as he appears In court commands all judgments and all ears; Observe him now, when to the gods he pays His ox or swine, and listen what he says: "Great Janus, Phoebus"—this he speaks aloud; The rest is muttered all and unavowed— "Divine Laverna, grant me safe disguise; Let me seem just and upright in men's eyes; Shed night upon my crimes, a glamour o'er my lies."

Say, what's a miser but a slave complete When he'd pick up a penny in the street? Fearing's a part of coveting, and he Who lives in fear is no freeman for me. The wretch whose thoughts by gain are all engrossed Has flung away his sword, betrayed his post. Don't kill your captive: keep him: he will sell; Some things there are the creature will do well: He'll plough and feed the cattle, cross the deep And traffic, carry corn, make produce cheap.

The wise and good, like Bacchus in the play, When Fortune threats, will have the nerve to say: "Great king of Thebes, what pains can you devise The man who will not serve you to chastise?" "I'll take your goods." "My flocks, my land, to wit, My plate, my couches: do, if you think fit." "I'll keep you chained and guarded in close thrall." "A god will come to free me when I call." Yes, he will die; 'tis that the bard intends; For when Death comes, the power of Fortune ends.



XVII. TO SCAEVA.

QUAMVIS, SCAEVA.

Though instinct tells you, Scaeva, how to act, And makes you live among the great with tact, Yet hear a fellow-student; 'tis as though The blind should point you out the way to go, But still give heed, and see if I produce Aught that hereafter you may find of use.

If rest is what you like, and sleep till eight, If dust and rumbling wheels are what you hate, If tavern-life disgusts you, then repair To Ferentinum, and turn hermit there; For wealth has no monopoly of bliss, And life unnoticed is not lived amiss: But if you'd help your friends, and like a treat, Then drop dry bread, and take to juicy meat. "If Aristippus could but dine off greens, He'd cease to cultivate his kings and queens." "If that rude snarler knew but queens and kings, He'd find his greens unpalatable things." Thus far the rival sages. Tell me true, Whose words you think the wiser of the two, Or hear (to listen is a junior's place) Why Aristippus has the better case; For he, the story goes, with this remark Once stopped the Cynic's aggravating bark: "Buffoon I may be, but I ply my trade For solid value; you ply yours unpaid. I pay my daily duty to the great, That I may ride a horse and dine in state; You, though you talk of independence, yet, Each time you beg for scraps, contract a debt." All lives sat well on Aristippus; though He liked the high, he yet could grace the low; But the dogged sage whose blanket folds in two Would be less apt in changing old for new. Take from the one his robe of costly red, He'll not refuse to dress, or keep his bed; Clothed as you please, he'll walk the crowded street, And, though not fine, will manage to look neat. Put purple on the other, not the touch Of toad or asp would startle him so much; Give back his blanket, or he'll die of chill: Yes, give it back; he's too absurd to kill.

To win great fights, to lead before men's eyes A captive foe, is half way to the skies: Just so, to gain by honourable ways A great man's favour is no vulgar praise: You know the proverb, "Corinth town is fair, But 'tis not every man that can get there." One man sits still, not hoping to succeed; One makes the journey; he's a man indeed! 'Tis that we look for; not to shift a weight Which little frames and little souls think great, But stoop and bear it. Virtue's a mere name, Or 'tis high venture that achieves high aim.

Those who have tact their poverty to mask Before their chief get more than those who ask; It makes, you see, a difference, if you take As modest people do, or snatch your cake; Yet that's the point from which our question starts, By what way best to get at patrons' hearts. "My mother's poor, my sister's dower is due, My farm won't sell or yield us corn enow," What is all this but just the beggar's cry, "I'm starving; give me food for charity"? "Ah!" whines another in a minor key, "The loaf's in out; pray spare a slice for me." But if in peace the raven would have fed, He'd have had less of clawing, more of bread.

A poor companion whom his friend takes down To fair Surrentum or Brundisium's town, If he makes much of cold, bad roads, and rain, Or moans o'er cash-box forced and money ta'en, Reminds us of a girl, some artful thing, Who cries for a lost bracelet or a ring, With this result, that when she comes to grieve For real misfortunes, no one will believe. So, hoaxed by one impostor, in the street A man won't set a cripple on his feet, Though he invoke Osiris, and appeal With streaming tears to hearts that will not feel, "Lift up a poor lame man! I tell no lie;" "Treat foreigners to that," the neighbours cry.



XVIII. TO LOLLIUS.

SI BENE TE NOVI.

You'd blush, good Lollius, if I judge you right, To mix the parts of friend and parasite. 'Twixt parasite and friend a gulf is placed, Wide as between the wanton and the chaste; Yet think not flattery friendship's only curse: A different vice there is, perhaps a worse, A brutal boorishness, which fain would win Regard by unbrushed teeth and close-shorn skin, Yet all the while is anxious to be thought Pure independence, acting as it ought. Between these faults 'tis Virtue's place to stand, At distance from the extreme on either hand. The flatterer by profession, whom you see At every feast among the lowest three, Hangs on his patron's looks, takes up each word Which, dropped by chance, might else expire unheard, Like schoolboys echoing what their masters say In sing-song drawl, or Gnatho in the play: While your blunt fellow battles for a straw, As though he'd knock you down or take the law: "How now, good sir? you mean my word to doubt? When I once think a thing, I mayn't speak out? Though living on your terms were living twice, Instead of once, 'twere dear at such a price." And what's the question that brings on these fits?— Does Dolichos or Castor make more hits? Or, starting for Brundisium, will it pay To take the Appian or Minucian way?

Him that gives in to dice or lewd excess, Who apes rich folks in equipage and dress, Who meanly covets to increase his store, And shrinks as meanly from the name of poor, That man his patron, though on all those heads Perhaps a worse offender, hates and dreads, Or says to him what tender parents say, Who'd have their children better men than they: "Don't vie with me," he says, and he says true; "My wealth will bear the silly things I do; Yours is a slender pittance at the best; A wise man cuts his coat—you know the rest." Eutrapelus, whene'er a grudge he owed To any, gave him garments a la mode; Because, said he, the wretch will feel inspired With new conceptions when he's new attired; He'll sleep through half the day, let business go For pleasure, teach a usurer's cash to grow; At last he'll turn a fencer, or will trudge Beside a cart, a market-gardener's drudge.