SATIRE X.
NEMPE INCOMPOSITO.
Yes, I did say that, view him as a bard,
Lucilius is unrhythmic, rugged, hard.
Lives there a partisan so weak of brain
As to join issue on a fact so plain?
But that he had a gift of biting wit,
In the same page I hastened to admit.
Now understand me: that's a point confessed;
But he who grants it grants not all the rest:
For, were a bard a bard because he's smart,
Laberius' mimes were products of high art.
'Tis not enough to make your reader's face
Wear a broad grin, though that too has its place:
Terseness there wants, to make the thought ring clear,
Nor with a crowd of words confuse the ear:
There wants a plastic style, now grave, now light,
Now such as bard or orator would write,
And now the language of a well-bred man,
Who masks his strength, and says not all he can:
And pleasantry will often cut clean through
Hard knots that gravity would scarce undo.
On this the old comedians rested: hence
They're still the models of all men of sense,
Despite Tigellius and his ape, whose song
Is Calvus and Catullus all day long.
"But surely that's a merit quite unique,
His gift of mixing Latin up with Greek,"
Unique, you lags in learning? what? a knack
Caught by Pitholeon with his hybrid clack?
"Nay, but the mixture gives the style more grace,
As Chian, plus Falernian, has more race."
Come, tell me truly: is this rule applied
To verse-making by you, and nought beside,
Or would you practise it, when called to plead
For poor Petillius, at his direst need?
Forsooth, you choose that moment, to disown
Your old forefathers, Latin to the bone,
And while great Pedius and Corvinus strain
Against you in pure Latin lungs and brain,
Like double-tongued Canusian, try to speak
A piebald speech, half native and half Greek!
Once when, though born on this side of the sea,
I tried my hand at Attic poetry,
Quirinus warned me, rising to my view
An hour past midnight, just when dreams are true:
"Seek you the throng of Grecian bards to swell?
Take sticks into a forest just as well."
So, while Alpinus spills his Memnon's blood,
Or gives his Rhine a headpiece of brown mud,
I toy with trifles such as this, unmeet
At Tarpa's grave tribunal to compete,
Or, mouthed by well-graced actors, be the rage
Of mobs, and hold possession of the stage.
No hand can match Fundanius at a piece
Where slave and mistress clip an old man's fleece:
Pollio in buskins chants the deeds of kings:
Varius outsoars us all on Homer's wings:
The Muse that loves the woodland and the farm
To Virgil lends her gayest, tenderest charm.
For me, this walk of satire, vainly tried
By Atacinus and some few beside,
Best suits my gait: yet readily I yield
To him who first set footstep on that field,
Nor meanly seek to rob him of the bay
That shows so comely on his locks of grey.
Well, but I called him muddy, said you'd find
More sand than gold in what he leaves behind.
And you, sir Critic, does your finer sense
In Homer mark no matter for offence?
Or e'en Lucilius, our good-natured friend,
Sees he in Accius nought he fain would mend?
Does he not laugh at Ennius' halting verse,
Yet own himself no better, if not worse?
And what should hinder me, as I peruse
Lucilius' works, from asking, if I choose,
If fate or chance forbade him to attain
A smoother measure, a more finished strain,
Than he (you'll let me fancy such a man)
Who, anxious only to make sense and scan,
Pours forth two hundred verses ere he sups,
Two hundred more, on rising from his cups?
Like to Etruscan Cassius' stream of song,
Which flowed, men say, so copious and so strong
That, when he died, his kinsfolk simply laid
His works in order, and his pyre was made.
No; grant Lucilius arch, engaging, gay;
Grant him the smoothest writer of his day;
Lay stress upon the fact that he'd to seek
In his own mind what others find in Greek;
Grant all you please, in turn you must allow,
Had fate postponed his life from then to now,
He'd prune redundancies, apply the file
To each excrescence that deforms his style,
Oft in the pangs of labour scratch his head,
And bite his nails, and bite them, till they bled.
Oh yes! believe me, you must draw your pen
Not once nor twice but o'er and o'er again
Through what you've written, if you would entice
The man that reads you once to read you twice,
Not making popular applause your cue,
But looking to fit audience, although few.
Say, would you rather have the things you scrawl
Doled out by pedants for their boys to drawl?
Not I: like hissed Arbuscula, I slight
Your hooting mobs, if I can please a knight.
Shall bug Pantilius vex me? shall I choke
Because Demetrius needs must have his joke
Behind my back, and Fannius, when he dines
With dear Tigellius, vilifies my lines?
Maecenas, Virgil, Varius, if I please
In my poor writings these and such as these,
If Plotius, Valgius, Fuscus will commend,
And good Octavius, I've achieved my end.
You, noble Pollio (let your friend disclaim
All thought of flattery when he names your name),
Messala and his brother, Servius too,
And Bibulus, and Furnius kind and true,
With others whom, despite their sense and wit
And friendly hearts, I purposely omit;
Such I would have my critics; men to gain
Whose smiles were pleasure, to forego them pain,
Demetrius and Tigellius, off! go pule
To the bare benches of your ladies' school!
Hallo there, youngster! take my book, you rogue,
And write this in, by way of epilogue.
BOOK II.
SATIRE I.
SUNT QUIBUS IN SATIRA.
HORACE. TREBATIUS.
HORACE.
Some think in satire I'm too keen, and press
The spirit of invective to excess:
Some call my verses nerveless: once begin,
A thousand such per day a man might spin.
Trebatius, pray advise me.
T. Wipe your pen.
H. What, never write a single line again?
T. That's what I mean.
H. 'Twould suit me, I protest, Exactly: but at nights I get no rest.
T. First rub yourself three times with oil all o'er,
Then swim the Tiber through from shore to shore,
Taking good care, as night draws on, to steep
Your brain in liquor: then you'll have your sleep.
Or, if you still have such an itch to write,
Sing of some moving incident of fight;
Sing of great Caasar's victories: a bard
Who works at that is sure to win reward.
H. Would that I could, my worthy sire! but skill
And vigour lack, how great soe'er the will.
Not every one can paint in epic strain
The lances bristling on the embattled plain,
Tell how the Gauls by broken javelins bleed,
Or sing the Parthian tumbling from his steed.
T. But you can draw him just and brave, you know,
As sage Lucilius did for Scipio.
H. Trust me for that: my devoir I will pay,
Whene'er occasion comes to point the way.
Save at fit times, no words of mine can find
A way through Cassar's ear to Cassar's mind:
A mettled horse, if awkwardly you stroke,
Kicks out on all sides, and your leg is broke.
T. Better do this than gall with keen lampoon
Cassius the rake and Maenius the buffoon,
When each one, though with withers yet unwrung,
Fears for himself, and hates your bitter tongue.
H. What shall I do? Milonius, when the wine
Mounts to his head, and doubled lustres shine,
Falls dancing; horses are what Castor loves;
His twin yolk-fellow glories in the gloves:
Count all the folks in all the world, you'll find
A separate fancy for each separate mind.
To drill reluctant words into a line,
This was Lucilius' hobby, and 'tis mine.
Good man, he was our better: yet he took
Such pride in nought as in his darling book:
That was his friend, to whom he would confide
The secret thoughts he hid from all beside,
And, whether Fortune used him well or ill,
Thither for sympathy he turned him still:
So there, as in a votive tablet penned,
You see the veteran's life from end to end.
His footsteps now I follow as I may,
Lucanian or Apulian, who shall say?
For we Venusians live upon the line
Just where Lucania and Apulia join,
Planted,'tis said, there in the Samnites' place,
To guard for Rome the intermediate space,
Lest these or those some day should make a raid
In time of war, and Roman soil invade.
But this poor implement of mine, my pen,
Shall ne'er assault one soul of living men:
Like a sheathed sword, I'll carry it about,
Just to protect my life when I go out,
A weapon I shall never care to draw,
While my good neighbours keep within the law.
O grant, dread Father, grant my steel may rust!
Grant that no foe may play at cut and thrust
With my peace-loving self! but should one seek
To quarrel with me, yon shall hear him shriek:
Don't say I gave no warning: up and down
He shall be trolled and chorused through the town.
Cervius attacks his foes with writ and rule:
Albutius' henbane is Canidia's tool:
How threatens Turius? if he e'er should judge
A. cause of yours, he'll bear you an ill grudge.
Each has his natural weapon, you'll agree,
If you will work the problem out with me:
Wolves use their tooth against you, bulls their
horn;
Why, but that each is to the manner born?
Take worthy Scaeva now, the spendthrift heir,
And trust his long-lived mother to his care;
He'll lift no hand against her. No, forsooth!
Wolves do not use their heel, nor bulls their tooth:
But deadly hemlock, mingled in the bowl
With honey, will take off the poor old soul.
Well, to be brief: whether old age await
My years, or Death e'en now be at the gate,
Wealthy or poor, at home or banished, still,
Whate'er my life's complexion, write I will.
T. Poor child! your life is hanging on a thread:
Some noble friend one day will freeze you dead.
H. What? when Lucilius first with dauntless brow
Addressed him to his task, as I do now,
And from each hypocrite stripped off the skin
He flaunted to the world, though foul within,
Did Laelius, or the chief who took his name
Prom conquered Carthage, grudge him his fair game?
Felt they for Lupus or Metellus, when
Whole floods of satire drenched the wretched men?
He took no count of persons: man by man
He scourged the proudest chiefs of each proud clan,
Nor spared delinquents of a humbler birth,
Kind but to worth and to the friends of worth.
And yet, when Scipio brave and Laelius sage
Stepped down awhile like actors from the stage,
They would unbend with him, and laugh and joke
While his pot boiled, like other simple folk.
Well, rate me at my lowest, far below
Lucilius' rank and talent, yet e'en so
Envy herself shall own that to the end
I lived with men of mark as friend with friend,
And, when she fain on living flesh and bone
Would try her teeth, shall close them on a stone;
That is, if grave Trebatius will concur—
T. I don't quite see; I cannot well demur;
Yet you had best be cautioned, lest you draw
Some mischief down from ignorance of law;
If a man writes ill verses out of spite
'Gainst A or B, the sufferer may indict.
H. Ill verses? ay, I grant you: but suppose
Caesar should think them good (and Caesar knows);
Suppose the man you bark at has a name
For every vice, while yours is free from blame.
T. O, then a laugh will cut the matter short:
The case breaks down, defendant leaves the court.
SATIRE II.
QUAE VIRTUS ET QUANTA.
The art of frugal living, and its worth,
To-day, my friends, Ofellus shall set forth
('Twas he that taught me it, a shrewd clear wit,
Though country-spun, and for the schools unfit):
Lend me your ears:—but not where meats and wine
In costly service on the table shine,
When the vain eye is dazzled, and the mind
Recoils from truth, to idle shows resigned:
No: let us talk on empty stomachs. Why?
Well, if you'd have me tell you, I will try.
The judge who soils his fingers by a gift
Is scarce the man a doubtful case to sift.
Say that you're fairly wearied with the course,
Following a hare, or breaking in a horse,
Or, if, for Roman exercise too weak,
You turn for your amusement to the Greek,
You play at ball, and find the healthy strain
Of emulation mitigates the pain,
Or hurl the quoit, till toil has purged all taint
Of squeamishness, and left you dry and faint;
Sniff, if you can, at common food, and spurn
All drink but honey mingled with Falern.
The butler has gone out: the stormy sea
Preserves its fishes safe from you and me:
No matter: salt ad libitum, with bread
Will soothe the Cerberus of our maws instead.
What gives you appetite? 'tis not the meat
Contains the relish: 'tis in you that eat.
Get condiments by work: for when the skin
Is pale and bloated from disease within,
Not golden plover, oyster, nor sardine,
Can make the edge of dulled enjoyment keen.
Yet there's one prejudice I sorely doubt
If force of reason ever will root out:
Oft as a peacock's set before you, still
Prefer it to a fowl you must and will,
Because (as if that mattered when we dine!)
The bird is costly, and its tail's so fine.
What? do you eat the feathers? when'tis drest
And sent to table, does it still look best?
While, as to flesh, the two are on a par:
Yes, you're the dupe of mere outside, you are.
You see that pike: what is it tells you straight
Where those wide jaws first opened for the bait,
In sea or river? 'twixt the bridges twain,
Or at the mouth where Tiber joins the main?
A three-pound mullet you must needs admire,
And yet you know 'tis never served entire.
The size attracts you: well then, why dislike
The selfsame quality when found in pike?
Why, but to fly in Nature's face for spite.
Because she made these heavy those weigh light?
O, when the stomach's pricked by hunger's stings,
We seldom hear of scorn for common things!
"Great fishes on great dishes! how I gloat
Upon the sight!" exclaims some harpy-throat.
Blow strongly, blow, good Auster, and ferment
The glutton's dainties, and increase their scent!
And yet, without such aid, they find the flesh
Of boar and turbot nauseous, e'en though fresh,
When, gorged to sick repletion, they request
Onions or radishes to give them zest.
Nay, e'en at royal banquets poor men's fare
Yet lingers: eggs and olives still are there.
When, years ago, Gallonius entertained
His friends with sturgeon, an ill name he gained.
Were turbots then less common in the seas?
No: but good living waxes by degrees.
Safe was the turbot, safe the stork's young brood,
Until a praetor taught us they were good.
So now, should some potential voice proclaim
That roasted cormorants are delicious game,
The youth of Rome (there's nothing too absurd
For their weak heads) will take him at his word.
But here Ofellus draws a line, between
A life that's frugal and a life that's mean:
For 'tis in vain that luxury you shun,
If straight on avarice your bark you run.
Avidienus—you may know him—who
Was always call'd the Dog, and rightly too,
On olives five-year-old is wont to dine,
And, till 'tis sour, will never broach his wine:
Oft as, attired for feasting, blithe and gay,
He keeps some birthday, wedding, holiday,
From his big horn he sprinkles drop by drop
Oil on the cabbages himself:—you'd stop
Your nose to smell it:—vinegar, I own,
He gives you without stint, and that alone.
Well, betwixt these, what should a wise man do?
Which should he copy, think you, of the two?
'Tis Scylla and Charybdis, rock and gulf:
On this side howls the dog, on that the wolf.
A man that's neat in table, as in dress,
Errs not by meanness, yet avoids excess;
Nor, like Albucius, when he plays the host,
Storms at his slaves, while giving each his post;
Nor, like poor Naevius, carelessly offends
By serving greasy water to his friends.
Now listen for a space, while I declare
The good results that spring from frugal fare.
IMPRIMIS, health: for 'tis not hard to see
How various meats are like to disagree,
If you remember with how light a weight
Your last plain meal upon your stomach sate:
Now, when you've taken toll of every dish,
Have mingled roast with boiled and fowl with fish,
The mass of dainties, turbulent and crude,
Engenders bile, and stirs intestine feud.
Observe your guests, how ghastly pale their looks
When they've discussed some mystery of your cook's:
Ay, and the body, clogged with the excess
Of yesterday, drags down the mind no less,
And fastens to the ground in living death
That fiery particle of heaven's own breath.
Another takes brief supper, seeks repair
From kindly sleep, then rises light as air:
Not that sometimes he will not cross the line,
And, just for once, luxuriously dine,
When feasts come round with the revolving year,
Or his shrunk frame suggests more generous cheer:
Then too, when age draws on and life is slack,
He has reserves on which he can fall back:
But what have you in store when strength shall fail,
You, who forestall your goods when young and hale?
A rancid boar our fathers used to praise:
What? had they then no noses in those days?
No: but they wished their friends to have the treat
When tainted rather than themselves when sweet.
O had I lived in that brave time of old,
When men were heroes, and the age was gold!
Come now, you set some store by good repute:
In truth, its voice is softer than a lute:
Then know, great fishes on great dishes still
Produce great scandal, let alone the bill.
Think too of angry uncles, friends grown rude,
Nay, your own self with your own self at feud
And longing for a rope to end your pain:
But ropes cost twopence; so you long in vain.
"O, talk," you say, "to Trausius: though severe,
Such truths as these are just what HE should hear:
But I have untold property, that brings
A yearly sum, sufficient for three kings."
Untold indeed! then can you not expend
Your superflux on some diviner end?
Why does one good man want while you abound?
Why are Jove's temples tumbling to the ground?
O selfish! what? devote no modicum
To your dear country from so vast a sum?
Ay, you're the man: the world will go your way….
O how your foes will laugh at you one day!
Take measure of the future: which will feel
More confidence in self, come woe, come weal,
He that, like you, by long indulgence plants
In body and in mind a thousand wants,
Or he who, wise and frugal, lays in stores
In view of war ere war is at the doors?
But, should you doubt what good Ofellus says,
When young I knew him, in his wealthier days:
Then, when his means were fair, he spent and spared
Nor more nor less than now, when they're impaired.
Still, in the field once his, but now assigned
To an intruding veteran, you may find,
His sons and beasts about him, the good sire,
A sturdy farmer, working on for hire.
"I ne'er exceeded"—so you'll hear him say—
"Herbs and smoked gammon on a working day;
But if at last a friend I entertained,
Or there dropped in some neighbour while it rained,
I got no fish from town to grace my board,
But dined off kid and chicken like a lord:
Raisins and nuts the second course supplied,
With a split fig, first doubled and then dried:
Then each against the other, with a fine
To do the chairman's work, we drank our wine,
And draughts to Ceres, so she'd top the ground
With good tall ears, our frets and worries drowned
Let Fortune brew fresh tempests, if she please,
How much can she knock off from joys like these!
Have you or I, young fellows, looked more lean
Since this new holder came upon the scene?
Holder, I say, for tenancy's the most
That he, or I, or any man can boast:
Now he has driven us out: but him no less
His own extravagance may dispossess
Or slippery lawsuit: in the last resort
A livelier heir will cut his tenure short.
Ofellus' name it bore, the field we plough,
A few years back: it bears Umbrenus' now:
None has it as a fixture, fast and firm,
But he or I may hold it for a term.
Then live like men of courage, and oppose
Stout hearts to this and each ill wind that blows."
SATIRE III.
SIC RARO SCRIBIS.
DAMASIPPUS. HORACE.
DAMASIPPUS.
So seldom do you write, we scarcely hear
Your tablets called for four times in the year:
And even then, as fast as you compose,
You quarrel with the thing, and out it goes,
Vexed that, in spite of bottle and of bed,
You turn out nothing worthy to be read.
How is it all to end? Here you've come down,
Avoiding a December spent in town:
Your brains are clear: begin, and charm our ears
With something worth your boasting.—Nought appears.
You blame your pens, and the poor wall, accurst
From birth by gods and poets, comes off worst.
Yet you looked bold, and talked of what you'd do,
Could you lie snug for one free day or two.
What boot Menander, Plato, and the rest
You carried down from town to stock your nest?
Think you by turning lazy to exempt
Your life from envy? No, you'll earn contempt.
Then stop your ears to sloth's enchanting voice,
Or give up your best hopes: there lies your choice.
H. Good Damasippus, may the immortals grant,
For your sage counsel, the one thing you want,
A barber! but pray tell me how yon came
To know so well what scarce is known to fame?
D. Why, ever since my hapless all went down
'Neath the mid arch, I go about the town,
And make my neighbours' matters my sole care,
Seeing my own are damaged past repair.
Once I was anxious on a bronze to light
Where Sisyphus had washed his feet at night;
Each work of art I criticized and classed,
Called this ill chiselled, that too roughly cast;
Prized that at fifty thousand: then I knew
To buy at profit grounds and houses too,
With a sure instinct: till the whole town o'er
"The pet of Mercury" was the name I bore.
H. I know your case, and am surprised to see
So clear a cure of such a malady.
D, Ay, but my old complaint (though strange, 'tis true)
Was banished from my system by a new:
Just as diseases of the side or head
My to the stomach or the chest instead,
Like your lethargic patient, when he tears
Himself from bed, and at the doctor squares.
H. Spare me but that, I'll trust you.
D. Don't be blind;
You're mad yourself, and so are all mankind,
If truth is in Stertinius, from whose speech
I learned the precious lessons that I teach,
What time he bade me grow a wise man's beard,
And sent me from the bridge, consoled and cheered.
For once, when, bankrupt and forlorn, I stood
With muffled head, just plunging in the flood,
"Don't do yourself a mischief," so he cried
In friendly tones, appearing at my side:
"'Tis all false shame: you fear to be thought mad,
Not knowing that the world are just as bad.
What constitutes a madman? if 'tis shown
The marks are found in you and you alone,
Trust me, I'll add no word to thwart your plan,
But leave you free to perish like a man.
The wight who drives through life with bandaged eyes,
Ignorant of truth and credulous of lies,
He in the judgment of Chrysippus' school
And the whole porch is tabled as a fool.
Monarchs and people, every rank and age,
That sweeping clause includes,—except the sage.
"Now listen while I show you, how the rest
Who call you madman, are themselves possessed.
Just as in woods, when travellers step aside
From the true path for want of some good guide,
This to the right, that to the left hand strays,
And all are wrong, but wrong in different ways,
So, though you're mad, yet he who banters you
Is not more wise, but wears his pigtail too.
One class of fools sees reason for alarm
In trivial matters, innocent of harm:
Stroll in the open plain, you'll hear them talk
Of fires, rocks, torrents, that obstruct their walk:
Another, unlike these, but not more sane,
Takes fires and torrents for the open plain:
Let mother, sister, father, wife combined
Cry 'There's a pitfall! there's a rock! pray mind!'
They'll hear no more than drunken Fufius, he
Who slept the part of queen Ilione,
While Catienus, shouting in his ear,
Roared like a Stentor, 'Hearken, mother dear!'
"Well, now, I'll prove the mass of humankind
Have judgments just as jaundiced, just as blind.
That Damasippus shows himself insane
By buying ancient statues, all think plain:
But he that lends him money, is he free
From the same charge? 'O, surely.' Let us see.
I bid you take a sum you won't return:
You take it: is this madness, I would learn?
Were it not greater madness to renounce
The prey that Mercury puts within your pounce?
Secure him with ten bonds; a hundred; nay,
Clap on a thousand; still he'll slip away,
This Protean scoundrel: drag him into court,
You'll only find yourself the more his sport:
He'll laugh till scarce you'd think his jaws his own,
And turn to boar or bird, to tree or stone.
If prudence in affairs denotes men sane
And bungling argues a disordered brain,
The man who lends the cash is far more fond
Than you, who at his bidding sign the bond.
"Now give attention and your gowns refold,
Who thirst for fame, grow yellow after gold,
Victims to luxury, superstition blind,
Or other ailment natural to the mind:
Come close to me and listen, while I teach
That you're a pack of madmen, all and each.
"Of all the hellebore that nature breeds,
The largest share by far the miser needs:
In fact, I know not but Anticyra's juice
Was all intended for his single use.
When old Staberius died, his heirs engraved
Upon his monument the sum he'd saved:
For, had they failed to do it, they were tied
A hundred pair of fencers to provide,
A feast at Arrius' pleasure, not too cheap,
And corn, as much as Afric's farmers reap.
'I may be right, I may be wrong,' said he,
'Who cares? 'tis not for you to lecture me.'
Well, one who knew Staberius would suppose
He was a man that looked beyond his nose:
Why did he wish, then, that his funeral stone
Should make the sum he left behind him known?
Why, while he lived, he dreaded nothing more
Than that great sin, the sin of being poor,
And, had he left one farthing less in purse,
The man, as man, had thought himself the worse:
For all things human and divine, renown,
Honour, and worth at money's shrine bow down:
And he who has made money, fool or knave,
Becomes that moment noble, just, and brave.
A sage, you ask me? yes, a sage, a king,
Whate'er he chooses; briefly, everything.
So good Staberius hoped each extra pound
His virtue saved would to his praise redound.
Now look at Aristippus, who, in haste
To make his journey through the Libyan waste,
Bade the stout slaves who bore his treasure throw
Their load away, because it made them slow.
Which was more mad? Excuse me: 'twill not do
To shut one question up by opening two.
"If one buys fiddles, hoards them up when bought,
Though music's study ne'er engaged his thought,
One lasts and awls, unversed in cobbler's craft,
One sails for ships, not knowing fore from aft,
You'd call them mad: but tell me, if you please,
How that man's case is different from these,
Who, as he gets it, stows away his gain,
And thinks to touch a farthing were profane?
Yet if a man beside a huge corn-heap
Lies watching with a cudgel, ne'er asleep,
And dares not touch one grain, but makes his meat
Of bitter leaves, as though he found them sweet:
If, with a thousand wine-casks—call the hoard
A million rather—in his cellars stored,
He drinks sharp vinegar: nay, if, when nigh
A century old, on straw he yet will lie,
While in his chest rich coverlets, the prey
Of moth and canker, moulder and decay,
Few men can see much madness in his whim,
Because the mass of mortals ail like him.
"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."