1Satire I (Qui fit, Maecenas)
How comes it, say, Maecenas, if you can,That none will live like a contented manWhere choice or chance directs, but each must praiseThe folk who pass through life by other ways?"Those lucky merchants!" cries the soldier stout,When years of toil have well-nigh worn him out:What says the merchant, tossing o'er the brine?"Yon soldier's lot is happier, sure, than mine:One short, sharp shock, and presto! all is done:Death in an instant comes, or victory's won."The lawyer lauds the farmer, when a knockDisturbs his sleep at crowing of the cock:The farmer, dragged to town on business, swearsThat only citizens are free from cares.I need not run through all: so long the list,Fabius himself would weary and desist:So take in brief my meaning: just supposeSome God should come, and with their wishes close:"See, here am I, come down of my mere graceTo right you: soldier, take the merchant's place!You, counsellor, the farmer's! go your way,One here, one there! None stirring? all say nay?How now? you won't be happy when you may."Now, after this, would Jove be aught to blameIf with both cheeks he burst into a flame,And vowed, when next they pray, they shall not findHis temper easy, or his ear inclined?
Well, not to treat things lightly (though, for me,Why truth may not be gay, I cannot see:Just as, we know, judicious teachers coaxWith sugar-plum or cake their little folksTo learn their alphabet):--still, we will tryA graver tone, and lay our joking by.The man that with his plough subdues the land,The soldier stout, the vintner sly and bland,The venturous sons of ocean, all declareThat with one view the toils of life they bear,When age has come, and labour has amassedEnough to live on, to retire at last:E'en so the ant (for no bad pattern she),That tiny type of giant industry,Drags grain by grain, and adds it to the sumOf her full heap, foreseeing cold to come:Yet she, when winter turns the year to chill,Stirs not an inch beyond her mounded hill,But lives upon her savings: you, more bold,Ne'er quit your gain for fiercest heat or cold:Fire, ocean, sword, defying all, you striveTo make yourself the richest man alive.Yet where's the profit, if you hide by stealthIn pit or cavern your enormous wealth?"Why, once break in upon it, friend, you know,And, dwindling piece by piece, the whole will go."But, if 'tis still unbroken, what delightCan all that treasure give to mortal wight?Say, you've a million quarters on your floor:Your stomach is like mine: it holds no more:Just as the slave who 'neath the bread-bag sweatsNo larger ration than his fellows gets.What matters it to reasonable menWhether they plough a hundred fields or ten?"But there's a pleasure, spite of all you say,In a large heap from which to take away."If both contain the modicum we lack,Why should your barn be better than my sack?You want a draught of water: a mere urn,Perchance a goblet, well would serve your turn:You say, "The stream looks scanty at its head;I'll take my quantum where 'tis broad instead."But what befalls the wight who yearns for moreThan Nature bids him? down the waters pour,And whelm him, bank and all; while he whose greedIs kept in check, proportioned to his need,He neither draws his water mixed with mud,Nor leaves his life behind him in the flood.
But there's a class of persons, led astrayBy false desires, and this is what they say:"You cannot have enough: what you possess,That makes your value, be it more or less."What answer would you make to such as these?Why, let them hug their misery if they please,Like the Athenian miser, who was wontTo meet men's curses with a hero's front:"Folks hiss me," said he, "but myself I clapWhen I tell o'er my treasures on my lap."So Tantalus catches at the waves that flyHis thirsty palate--Laughing, are you? why?Change but the name, of you the tale is told:You sleep, mouth open, on your hoarded gold;Gold that you treat as sacred, dare not use,In fact, that charms you as a picture does.Come, will you hear what wealth can fairly do?'Twill buy you bread, and vegetables too,And wine, a good pint measure: add to thisSuch needful things as flesh and blood would miss.But to go mad with watching, nights and daysTo stand in dread of thieves, fires, runawaysWho filch and fly,--in these if wealth consist,Let me rank lowest on the paupers' list.
"But if you suffer from a chill attack,Or other chance should lay you on your back,You then have one who'll sit by your bed-side,Will see the needful remedies applied,And call in a physician, to restoreYour health, and give you to your friends once more."Nor wife nor son desires your welfare: allDetest you, neighbours, gossips, great and small.What marvel if, when wealth's your one concern,None offers you the love you never earn?Nay, would you win the kinsmen Nature sendsMade ready to your hand, and keep them friends,'Twere but lost labour, as if one should trainA donkey for the course by bit and rein.
Make then an end of getting: know, the moreYour wealth, the less the risk of being poor;And, having gained the object of your quest,Begin to slack your efforts and take rest;Nor act like one Ummidius (never fear,The tale is short, and 'tis the last you'll hear),So rich, his gold he by the peck would tell,So mean, the slave that served him dressed as well;E'en to his dying day he went in dreadOf perishing for simple want of bread,Till a brave damsel, of Tyndarid lineThe true descendant, clove him down the chine.
"What? would you have me live like some we know,Maenius or Nomentanus?" There you go!Still in extremes! in bidding you forsakeA miser's ways, I say not, Be a rake.'Twixt Tanais and Visellius' sire-in-lawA step there is, and broader than a straw.Yes, there's a mean in morals: life has lines,To north or south of which all virtue pines.
Now to resume our subject: why, I say,Should each man act the miser in his way,Still discontented with his natural lot,Still praising those who have what he has not?Why should he waste with very spite, to seeHis neighbour has a milkier cow than he,Ne'er think how much he's richer than the mass,But always strive this man or that to pass?In such a contest, speed we as we may,There's some one wealthier ever in the way.So from their base when vying chariots pour,Each driver presses on the car before,Wastes not a thought on rivals overpast,But leaves them to lag on among the last.Hence comes it that the man is rarely seenWho owns that his a happy life has been,And, thankful for past blessings, with good willRetires, like one who has enjoyed his fill.Enough: you'll think I've rifled the scrutoreOf blind Crispinus, if I prose on more.
3Satire III (Omnibus hoc vitium)
All singers have a fault: if asked to useTheir talent among friends, they never choose;Unask'd, they ne'er leave off. Just such a oneTigellius was, Sardinia's famous son.Caesar, who could have forced him to obey,By his sire's friendship and his own might pray,Yet not draw forth a note: then, if the whimTook him, he'd troll a Bacchanalian hymn,From top to bottom of the tetrachord,Till the last course was set upon the board.One mass of inconsistence, oft he'd flyAs if the foe were following in full cry,While oft he'd stalk with a majestic gait,Like Juno's priest in ceremonial-state.Now, he would keep two hundred serving-men,And now, a bare establishment of ten.Of kings and tetrarchs with an equal's airHe'd talk: next day he'd breathe the hermit's prayer:"A table with three legs, a shell to holdMy salt, and clothes, though coarse, to keep out cold."Yet give this man, so frugal, so content,A thousand, in a week 'twould all be spent.All night he would sit up, all day would snore:So strange a jumble ne'er was seen before.
"Hold!" some one cries, "have you no failings?" Yes;Failings enough, but different, maybe less.One day when Maenius happened to attackNovius the usurer behind his back,"Do you not know yourself?" said one, "or thinkThat if you play the stranger, we shall wink?""Not know myself!" he answered, "you say true:I do not: so I take a stranger's due."Self-love like this is knavish and absurd,And well deserves a damnatory word.You glance at your own faults; your eyes are blear:You eye your neighbour's; straightway you see clear,Like hawk or basilisk: your neighbours pryInto your frailties with as keen an eye.A man is passionate, perhaps misplacedIn social circles of fastidious taste;His ill-trimmed beard, his dress of uncouth style,His shoes ill-fitting, may provoke a smile:But he's the soul of virtue; but he's kind;But that coarse body hides a mighty mind.Now, having scanned his breast, inspect your own,And see if there no failings have been sownBy Nature or by habit, as the fernSprings in neglected fields, for men to burn.
True love, we know, is blind: defects that blightThe loved one's charms escape the lover's sight,Nay, pass for beauties, as Balbinus glowsWith admiration of his Hagna's nose.Ah, if in friendship we e'en did the same,And virtue cloaked the error with her name!Come, let us learn how friends at friends should lookBy a leaf taken from a father's book.Has the dear child a squint? at home he's classedWith Venus' self; "her eyes have just that cast:"Is he a dwarf like Sisyphus? his sireCalls him "sweet pet," and would not have him higher,Gives Varus' name to knock-kneed boys, and dubsHis club-foot youngster Scaurus, king of clubs.E'en so let us our neighbours' frailties scan:A friend is close; call him a careful man:Another's vain and fond of boasting; say,He talks in an engaging, friendly way:A third is a barbarian, rude and free;Straightforward and courageous let him be:A fourth is apt to break into a flame;An ardent spirit--make we that his name.This is the sovereign recipe, be sure,To win men's hearts, and having won, secure.
But WE put virtue down to vice's score,And foul the vessel that was clean before:See, here's a modest man, who ranks too lowIn his own judgment; him we nickname slow:Another, ever on his guard, takes careNo enemy shall catch him unaware,(Small wonder, truly, in a world like this,Beset with dogs that growl and snakes that hiss);We turn his merit to a fault, and styleHis prudence mere disguise, his caution guile.Or take some honest soul, who, full of glee,Breaks on a patron's solitude, like me,Finds his Maecenas book in hand or dumb,And pokes him with remarks, the first that come;We cry "He lacks e'en common tact." Alas!What hasty laws against ourselves we pass!For none is born without his faults: the bestBut bears a lighter wallet than the rest.A man of genial nature, as is fair,My virtues with my vices will compare,And, as with good or bad he fills the scale,Lean to the better side, should that prevail:So, when he seeks my friendship, I will trimThe wavering balance in my turn for him.He that has fears his blotches may offendSpeaks gently of the pimples of his friend:For reciprocity exacts her dues,And they that need excuse must needs excuse.
Now, since resentment, spite of all we do,Will haunt us fools, and other vices too,Why should not reason use her own just sense,And square her punishments to each offence?Suppose a slave, as he removes the dish,Licks the warm gravy or remains of fish,Should his vexed master gibbet the poor lad,He'd be a second Labeo, STARING mad.Now take another instance, and remarkA case of madness, grosser and more stark.A friend has crossed you:--'tis a slight affair;Not to forgive it writes you down a bear:--You hate the man and his acquaintance fly,As Ruso's debtors hide from Ruso's eye;Poor victims, doomed, when that black pay-day's come,Unless by hook or crook they raise the sum,To stretch their necks, like captives to the knife,And listen to dull histories for dear life.Say, he has drunk too much, or smashed some ware,Evander's once, inestimably rare,Or stretched before me, in his zeal to dine,To snatch a chicken I had meant for mine;What then? is that a reason he should seemLess pleasant, less deserving my esteem?How could I treat him worse, were he to thieve,Betray a secret, or a trust deceive?
Your men of words, who rate all crimes alike,Collapse and founder, when on fact they strike:Sense, custom, all, cry out against the thing,And high expedience, right's perennial spring.When men first crept from out earth's womb, like worms,Dumb speechless creatures, with scarce human forms,With nails or doubled fists they used to fightFor acorns or for sleeping-holes at night;Clubs followed next; at last to arms they came,Which growing practice taught them how to frame,Till words and names were found, wherewith to mouldThe sounds they uttered, and their thoughts unfold;Thenceforth they left off fighting, and beganTo build them cities, guarding man from man,And set up laws as barriers against strifeThat threatened person, property, or wife.'Twas fear of wrong gave birth to right, you'll find,If you but search the records of mankind.Nature knows good and evil, joy and grief,But just and unjust are beyond her brief:Nor can philosophy, though finely spun,By stress of logic prove the two things one,To strip your neighbour's garden of a flowerAnd rob a shrine at midnight's solemn hour.A rule is needed, to apportion pain,Nor let you scourge when you should only cane.For that you're likely to be overmild,And treat a ruffian like a naughty child,Of this there seems small danger, when you sayThat theft's as bad as robbery in its way,And vow all villains, great and small, shall swingFrom the same tree, if men will make you king.
But tell me, Stoic, if the wise, you teach,Is king, Adonis, cobbler, all and each,Why wish for what you've got? "Tou fail to seeWhat great Chrysippus means by that," says he."What though the wise ne'er shoe nor slipper made,The wise is still a brother of the trade.Just as Hennogenes, when silent, stillRemains a singer of consummate skill,As sly Alfenius, when he had let dropHis implements of art and shut up shop,Was still a barber, so the wise is bestIn every craft, a king's among the rest."Hail to your majesty! yet, ne'ertheless,Rude boys are pulling at your beard, I guess;And now, unless your cudgel keeps them off,The mob begins to hustle, push, and scoff;You, all forlorn, attempt to stand at bay,And roar till your imperial lungs give way.Well, so we part: each takes his separate path:You make your progress to your farthing bath,A king, with ne'er a follower in your train,Except Crispinus, that distempered brain;While I find pleasant friends to screen me, whenI chance to err, like other foolish men;Bearing and borne with, so the change we ring,More blest as private folks than you as king.
4Satire IV (Eupolis atque Cratinus)
Cratinus, Aristophanes, and allThe elder comic poets, great and small,If e'er a worthy in those ancient timesDeserved peculiar notice for his crimes,Adulterer, cut-throat, ne'er-do-well, or thief,Portrayed him without fear in strong relief.From these, as lineal heir, Lucilius springs,The same in all points save the tune he sings,A shrewd keen satirist, yet somewhat hardAnd rugged, if you view him as a bard.For this was his mistake: he liked to stand,One leg before him, leaning on one hand,Pour forth two hundred verses in an hour,And think such readiness a proof of power.When like a torrent he bore down, you'd findHe left a load of refuse still behind:Fluent, yet indolent, he would rebelAgainst the toil of writing, writing WELL,Not writing MUCH; for that I grant you. See,Here comes Crispinus, wants to bet with me,And offers odds: "A meeting, if you please:Take we our tablets each, you those, I these:Name place, and time, and umpires: let us tryWho can compose the faster, you or I."Thank Heaven, that formed me of unfertile mind,My speech not copious, and my thoughts confined!But you, be like the bellows, if you choose,Still puffing, puffing, till the metal fuse,And vent your windy nothings with a soundThat makes the depth they come from seem profound.
Happy is Fannius, with immortals classed,His bust and bookcase canonized at last,While, as for me, none reads the things I write.Loath as I am in public to recite,Knowing that satire finds small favour, sinceMost men want whipping, and who want it, wince.Choose from the crowd a casual wight, 'tis seenHe's place-hunter or miser, vain or mean:One raves of others' wives: one stands agazeAt silver dishes: bronze is Albius' craze:Another barters goods the whole world o'er,From distant east to furthest western shore,Driving along like dust-cloud through the airTo increase his capital or not impair:These, one and all, the clink of metre fly,And look on poets with a dragon's eye."Beware! he's vicious: so he gains his end,A selfish laugh, he will not spare a friend:Whate'er he scrawls, the mean malignant rogueIs all alive to get it into vogue:Give him a handle, and your tale is knownTo every giggling boy and maundering crone."A weighty accusation! now, permitSome few brief words, and I will answer it:First, be it understood, I make no claimTo rank with those who bear a poet's name:'Tis not enough to turn out lines complete,Each with its proper quantum of five feet;Colloquial verse a man may write like me,But (trust an author)'tis not poetry.No; keep that name for genius, for a soulOf Heaven's own fire, for words that grandly roll.Hence some have questioned if the Muse we callThe Comic Muse be really one at all:Her subject ne'er aspires, her style ne'er glows,And, save that she talks metre, she talks prose."Aye, but the angry father shakes the stage,When on his graceless son he pours his rage,Who, smitten with the mistress of the hour,Rejects a well-born wife with ample dower,Gets drunk, and (worst of all) in public sightKeels with a blazing flambeau while 'tis light."Well, could Pomponius' sire to life return,Think you he'd rate his son in tones less stern?So then 'tis not sufficient to combineWell-chosen words in a well-ordered line,When, take away the rhythm, the self-same wordsWould suit an angry father off the boards.Strip what I write, or what Lucilius wrote,Of cadence and succession, time and note,Reverse the order, put those words behindThat went before, no poetry you'll find:But break up this, "When Battle's brazen doorBlood-boltered Discord from its fastenings tore,"'Tis Orpheus mangled by the Maenads: stillThe bard remains, unlimb him as you will.
Enough of this: some other time we'll seeIf Satire is or is not poetry:Today I take the question, if 'tis justThat men like you should view it with distrust.Sulcius and Caprius promenade in force,Each with his papers, virulently hoarse,Bugbears to robbers both: but he that's trueAnd decent-living may defy the two.Say, you're first cousin to that goodly pairCaelius and Birrius, and their foibles share:No Sulcius nor yet Caprius here you seeIn your unworthy servant: why fear ME?No books of mine on stall or counter stand,To tempt Tigellius' or some clammier hand,Nor read I save to friends, and that when pressed,Not to chance auditor or casual guest.Others are less fastidious: some will airTheir last production in the public square:Some choose the bathroom, for the walls all roundMake the voice sweeter and improve the sound:Weak brains, to whom the question ne'er occurredIf what they do be vain, ill-timed, absurd."But you give pain: your habit is to bite,"Rejoins the foe, "of sot deliberate spite."Who broached that slander? of the men I know,With whom I live, have any told you so?He who maligns an absent friend's fair fame,Who says no word for him when others blame,Who courts a reckless laugh by random hits,Just for the sake of ranking among wits,Who feigns what he ne'er saw, a secret blabs,Beware him, Roman! that man steals or stabs!Oft you may see three couches, four on each,Where all are wincing under one man's speech,All, save the host: his turn too comes at last,When wine lets loose the humour shame held fast:And you, who hate malignity, can seeNought here but pleasant talk, well-bred and free.I, if I chance in laughing vein to noteRufillus' civet and Gargonius' goat,Must I be toad or scorpion? Look at home:Suppose Petillius' theft, the talk of Rome,Named in your presence, mark how yon defendIn your accustomed strain your absent friend:"Petillius? yes, I know him well: in truthWe have been friends, companions, e'en from youth:A thousand times he's served me, and I joyThat he can walk the streets without annoy:Yet 'tis a puzzle, I confess, to meHow from that same affair he got off free."Here is the poison-bag of malice, hereThe gall of fell detraction, pure and sheer:And these, I'swear, if man such pledge may give,My pen and heart shall keep from, while I live.
But if I still seem personal and bold,Perhaps you'll pardon, when my story's told.When my good father taught me to be good,Scarecrows he took of living flesh and blood.Thus, if he warned me not to spend but spareThe moderate means I owe to his wise care,'Twas, "See the life that son of Albius leads!Observe that Barrus, vilest of ill weeds!Plain beacons these for heedless youth, whose tasteMight lead them else a fair estate to waste:"If lawless love were what he bade me shun,"Avoid Scetanius' slough," his words would run:"Wise men," he'd add, "the reasons will explainWhy you should follow this, from that refrain:For me, if I can train you in the waysTrod by the worthy folks of earlier days,And, while you need direction, keep your nameAnd life unspotted, I've attained my aim:When riper years have seasoned brain and limb,You'll drop your corks, and like a Triton swim."'Twas thus he formed my boyhood: if he soughtTo make me do some action that I ought,"You see your warrant there," he'd say, and clenchHis word with some grave member of the bench:So too with things forbidden: "can you doubtThe deed's a deed an honest man should scout,When, just for this same matter, these and those,Like open drains, are stinking 'neath your nose?"Sick gluttons of a next-door funeral hear,And learn self-mastery in the school of fear:And so a neighbour's scandal many a timeHas kept young minds from running into crime.
Thus I grew up, unstained by serious ill,Though venial faults, I grant you, haunt me still:Yet items I could name retrenched e'en thereBy time, plain speaking, individual care;For, when I chance to stroll or lounge alone,I'm not without a Mentor of my own:"This course were better: that might help to mendMy daily life, improve me as a friend:There some one showed ill-breeding: can I sayI might not fall into the like one day?"So with closed lips I ruminate, and thenIn leisure moments play with ink and pen:For that's an instance, I must needs avow,Of those small faults I hinted at just now:Grant it your prompt indulgence, or a throngOf poets shall come up, some hundred strong,And by mere numbers, in your own despite,Force you, like Jews, to be our proselyte.
5Satire V (Egressum magna)
Leaving great Rome, my journey I begin,And reach Aricia, where a moderate inn(With me was Heliodorus, who knows moreOf rhetoric than e'er did Greek before):Next Appii Forum, filled, e'en, nigh to choke,With knavish publicans and boatmen folk.This portion of our route, which most get throughAt one good stretch, we chose to split in two,Taking it leisurely: for those who goThe Appian road are jolted less when slow.I find the water villanous, declineMy stomach's overtures, refuse to dine,And sit and sit with temper less than sweetWatching my fellow-travellers while they eat.Now Night prepared o'er all the earth to spreadHer veil, and light the stars up overhead:Boatmen and slaves a slanging-match begin:"Ho! put in here! What! take three hundred in?You'll swamp us all:" so, while our fares we pay,And the mule's tied, a whole hour slips away.No hope of sleep: the tenants of the marsh,Hoarse frogs and shrill mosquitos, sing so harsh,While passenger and boatman chant the praiseOf their true-loves in amoebean lays,Each fairly drunk: the passenger at lastTires of the game, and soon his eyes are fast:Then to a stone his mule the boatman moors,Leaves her to pasture, lays him down, and snores.And now 'twas near the dawning of the day,When 'tis discovered that we make no way:Out leaps a hair-brained fellow and attacksWith a stout cudgel mule's and boatman's backs:And so at length, thanks to this vigorous friend,By ten o'clock we reach our boating's end.Tired with the voyage, face and hands we laveIn pure Feronia's hospitable wave.We take some food, then creep three miles or soTo Anxur, built on cliffs that gleam like snow;There rest awhile, for there our mates were due,Maecenas and Cocceius, good and true,Sent on a weighty business, to composeA feud, and make them friends who late were foes.I seize on the occasion, and applyA touch of ointment to an ailing eye.Meanwhile Maecenas with Cocceius came,And Capito, whose errand was the same,A man of men, accomplished and refined,Who knew, as few have known, Antonius' mind.Along by Fundi next we take our wayFor all its praetor sought to make us stay,Not without laughter at the foolish soul,His senatorial stripe and pan of coal.Then at Mamurra's city we pull up,Lodge with Murena, with Fonteius sup.Next morn the sun arises, O how sweet!At Sinnessa we with Plotius meet,Varius and Virgil; men than whom on earthI know none dearer, none of purer worth.O what a hand-shaking! while sense abides,A friend to me is worth the world besides.Campania's border-bridge next day we crossed,There housed and victualled at the public cost.The next, we turn off early from the roadAt Capua, and the mules lay down their load;There, while Maecenas goes to fives, we creep,Virgil and I, to bed, and so to sleep:For, though the game's a pleasant one to play,Weak stomachs and weak eyes are in the way.Then to Cocceius' country-house we come,Beyond the Caudian inns, a sumptuous home.Now, Muse, recount the memorable fight'Twixt valiant Messius and Sarmentus wight,And tell me first from what proud lineage sprungThe champions joined in battle, tongue with tongue.From Oscan blood great Messius' sires derive:Sarmentus has a mistress yet alive.Such was their parentage: they meet in force:Sarmentus starts: "You're just like a wild horse."We burst into a laugh. The other said,"Well, here's a horse's trick:" and tossed his head."O, were your horn yet growing, how your foeWould rue it, sure, when maimed you threaten so!"Sarmentus cries: for Messius' brow was marredBy a deep wound, which left it foully scarred.Then, joking still at his grim countenance,He begged him just to dance the Cyclop dance:No buskin, mask, nor other aid of artWould be required to make him look his part.Messius had much to answer: "Was his chainSuspended duly in the Lares' fane?Though now a notary, he might yet be seizedAnd given up to his mistress, if she pleased.Nay, more," he asked, "why had he run away,When e'en a single pound of corn a dayHad filled a maw so slender?" So we spentOur time at table, to our high content.
Then on to Beneventum, where our host,As some lean thrushes he essayed to roast,Was all but burnt: for up the chimney cameThe blaze, and well nigh set the house on flame:The guests and servants snatch the meat, and fallUpon the fire with buckets, one and all.Next rise to view Apulia's well-known heights,Which keen Atabulus so sorely bites:And there perchance we might be wandering yet,But shelter in Trivicum's town we get,Where green damp branches in the fireplace spreadMake our poor eyes to water in our head.Then four and twenty miles, a good long way,Our coaches take us, in a town to stayWhose name no art can squeeze into a line,Though otherwise 'tis easy to define:For water there, the cheapest thing on earth,Is sold for money: but the bread is worthA fancy price, and travellers who knowTheir business take it with them when they go:For at Canusium, town of Diomed,The drink's as bad, and grits are in the bread.Here to our sorrow Varius takes his leave,And, grieved himself, compels his friends to grieve.Fatigued, we come to Rubi: for the wayWas long, and rain had made it sodden clay.Next day, with better weather, o'er worse groundWe get to Barium's town, where fish abound.Then Gnatia, built in water-nymphs' despite,Made us cut jokes and laugh, as well we might,Listening to tales of incense, wondrous feat,That melts in temples without fire to heat.Tell the crazed Jews such miracles as these!I hold the gods live lives of careless ease,And, if a wonder happens, don't assume'Tis sent in anger from the upstairs room.Last comes Brundusium: there the lines I penned,The leagues I travelled, find alike their end.
6Satire VI (Non quia, Maecenas)
What if, Maecenas, none, though ne'er so blueHis Tusco-Lydian blood, surpasses you?What if your grandfathers, on either hand,Father's and mother's, were in high command?Not therefore do you curl the lip of scornAt nobodies, like me, of freedman born:Far other rule is yours, of rank or birthTo raise no question, so there be but worth,Convinced, and truly too, that wights unknown,Ere Servius' rise set freedmen on the throne,Despite their ancestors, not seldom cameTo high employment, honours, and fair fame,While great Laevinus, scion of the raceThat pulled down Tarquin from his pride of place,Has ne'er been valued at a poor half-crownE'en in the eyes of that wise judge, the town,That muddy source of dignity, which seesNo virtue but in busts and lineal trees.
Well, but for us; what thoughts should ours be, say,Removed from vulgar judgments miles away?Grant that Laevinus yet would be preferredTo low-born Decius by the common herd,That censor Appius, just because I cameFrom freedman's loins, would obelize my name--And serve me right; for 'twas my restless prideKept me from sleeping in my own poor hide.But Glory, like a conqueror, drags behindHer glittering car the souls of all mankind;Nor less the lowly than the noble feelsThe onward roll of those victorious wheels.Come, tell me, Tillius, have you cause to thankThe stars that gave you power, restored you rank?Ill-will, scarce audible in low estate,Gives tongue, and opens loudly, now you're great.Poor fools! they take the stripe, draw on the shoe,And hear folks asking, "Who's that fellow? who?"Just as a man with Barrus's disease,His one sole care a lady's eye to please,Whene'er he walks abroad, sets on the fairTo con him over, leg, face, teeth, and hair;So he that undertakes to hold in chargeTown, country, temples, all the realm at large,Gives all the world a title to enquireThe antecedents of his dam or sire."What? you to twist men's necks or scourge them, you,The son of Syrus, Dama, none knows who?""Aye, but I sit before my colleague; heRanks with my worthy father, not with me."And think you, on the strength of this, to riseA Paullus or Messala in our eyes?Talk of your colleague! he's a man of parts:Suppose three funerals jostle with ten cartsAll in the forum, still you'll hear his voiceThrough horn and clarion: that commends ourchoice.
Now on myself, the freedman's son, I touch,The freedman's son, by all contemned as such,Once, when a legion followed my command,Now, when Maecenas takes me by the hand.But this and that are different: some stern judgeMy military rank with cause might grudge,But not your friendship, studious as you've beenTo choose good men, not pushing, base, or mean.In truth, to luck I care not to pretend,For 'twas not luck that mark'd me for your friend:Virgil at first, that faithful heart and true,And Varius after, named my name to you.Brought to your presence, stammeringly I told(For modesty forbade me to be bold)No vaunting tale of ancestry of pride,Of good broad acres and sleek nags to ride,But simple truth: a few brief words you say,As is your wont, and wish me a good day.Then, nine months after, graciously you send,Desire my company, and hail me friend.O, 'tis no common fortune, when one earnsA friend's regard, who man from man discerns,Not by mere accident of lofty birthBut by unsullied life, and inborn worth!
Yet, if my nature, otherwise correct,But with some few and trifling faults is flecked,Just as a spot or mole might be to blameUpon some body else of comely frame,If none can call me miserly and meanOr tax my life with practices unclean,If I have lived unstained and unreproved(Forgive self-praise), if loving and beloved,I owe it to my father, who, though poor,Passed by the village school at his own door,The school where great tall urchins in a row,Sons of great tall centurions, used to go,With slate and satchel on their backs, to payTheir monthly quota punctual to the day,And took his boy to Rome, to learn the artsWhich knight or senator to HIS imparts.Whoe'er had seen me, neat and more than neat,With slaves behind me, in the crowded street,Had surely thought a fortune fair and large,Two generations old, sustained the charge.Himself the true tried guardian of his son,Whene'er I went to class, he still made one.Why lengthen out the tale? he kept me chaste,Which is the crown of virtue, undisgracedIn deed and name: he feared not lest one dayThe world should talk of money thrown away,If after all I plied some trade for hire,Like him, a tax-collector, or a crier:Nor had I murmured: as it is, the scoreOf gratitude and praise is all the more.No: while my head's unturned, I ne'er shall needTo blush for that dear father, or to pleadAs men oft plead, 'tis Nature's fault, not mine,I came not of a better, worthier line.Not thus I speak, not thus I feel: the pleaMight serve another, but 'twere base in me.Should Fate this moment bid me to go backO'er all my length of years, my life retrackTo its first hour, and pick out such descentAs man might wish for e'en to pride's content,I should rest satisfied with mine, nor chooseNew parents, decked with senatorial shoes,Mad, most would think me, sane, as you'll allow,To waive a load ne'er thrust on me till now.More gear 'twould make me get without delay,More bows there'd be to make, more calls to pay,A friend or two must still be at my side,That all alone I might not drive or ride,More nags would want their corn, more grooms their meat,And waggons must be bought, to save their feet.Now on my bobtailed mule I jog at ease,As far as e'en Tarentum, if I please,A wallet for my things behind me tied,Which galls his crupper, as I gall his side,And no one rates my meanness, as they rateYours, noble Tillius, when you ride in stateOn the Tiburtine road, five slaves EN SUITE,Wineholder and et-ceteras all complete.
'Tis thus my life is happier, man of pride,Than yours and that of half the world beside.When the whim leads, I saunter forth alone,Ask how are herbs, and what is flour a stone,Lounge through the Circus with its crowd of liars,Or in the Forum, when the sun retires,Talk to a soothsayer, then go home to seekMy frugal meal of fritter, vetch, and leek:Three youngsters serve the food: a slab of whiteContains two cups, one ladle, clean and bright:Next, a cheap basin ranges on the shelf,With jug and saucer of Campanian delf:Then off to bed, where I can close my eyesNot thinking how with morning I must riseAnd face grim Marsyas, who is known to swearYoung Novius' looks are what he cannot bear.I lie a-bed till ten: then stroll a bit,Or read or write, if in a silent fit,And rub myself with oil, not taken whenceNatta takes his, at some poor lamp's expense.So to the field and ball; but when the sunBids me go bathe, the field and ball I shun:Then eat a temperate luncheon, just to stayA sinking stomach till the close of day,Kill time in-doors, and so forth. Here you seeA careless life, from stir and striving free,Happier (O be that flattering unction mine!)Than if three quaestors figured in my line.
7Satire VII (Proscripti regis rupili)
How mongrel Persius managed to outstingThat pungent proscript, foul Rupilius King,Is known, I take it, to each wight that dropsOil on bleared eyes, or lolls in barbers' shops.
Persius was rich, a man of great affairs,Steeped to the lips in monetary caresDown at Clazomenae: and some dispute'Twixt him and King had festered to a suit.Tough, pushing, loud was he, with power of hateTo beat e'en King's; so pestilent his prate,That Barrus and Sisenna you would findLeft in the running leagues and leagues behind.Well, to return to King: they quickly seeThey can't agree except to disagree:For 'tis a rule, that wrath is short or longJust as the combatants are weak or strong:'Twixt Hector and Aeacides the strifeWas truceless, mortal, could but end with life,For this plain reason, that in either wightThe tide of valour glowed at its full height;Whereas, if two poor cravens chance to jar,Or if an ill-matched couple meet in war,Like Diomede and Glaucus, straight the worseGives in, and presents are exchanged of course.
Well, in the days when Brutus held command,With praetor's rank, o'er Asia's wealthy land,Persius and King engage, a goodly pair,Like Bithus matched with Bacchius to a hair.Keen as sharp steel, before the court they go,Bach in himself as good as a whole show.
Persius begins: amid the general laughHe praises Brutus, praises Brutus' staff,Brutus, the healthful sun of Asia's sphere,His staff, the minor stars that bless the year,All, save poor King; a dog-star he, the signTo farmers inauspicious and malign:So roaring on he went, like wintry flood,Where axes seldom come to thin the wood.
Then, as he thundered, King, Praeneste-bred,Hurled vineyard slang in handfuls at his head,A tough grape-gatherer, whom the passer-byCould ne'er put down, with all his cuckoo cry.
Sluiced with Italian vinegar, the GreekAt length vociferates, "Brutus, let me speak!You are our great king-killer: why delayTo kill this King? I vow 'tis in your way."
9Satire IX (Ibam forte via sacra)
Long the Sacred Road I strolled one day,Deep in some bagatelle (you know my way),When up comes one whose name I scarcely knew--"The dearest of dear fellows! how d'ye do?"He grasped my hand--"Well, thanks: the same to you."Then, as he still kept walking by my side,To cut things short, "You've no commands?" I cried."Nay, you should know me: I'm a man of lore.""Sir, I'm your humble servant all the more."All in a fret to make him let me go,I now walk fast, now loiter and walk slow,Now whisper to my servant, while the sweatRan down so fast, my very feet were wet."O had I but a temper worth the name,Like yours, Bolanus!" inly I exclaim,While he keeps running on at a hand-trot,About the town, the streets, I know not what.Finding I made no answer, "Ah! I see,Tou 're at a strait to rid yourself of me;But 'tis no use: I'm a tenacious friend,And mean to hold you till your journey's end,""No need to take you such a round: I goTo visit an acquaintance you don't know:Poor man! he's ailing at his lodging, farBeyond the bridge, where Caesar's gardens are.""O, never mind: I've nothing else to do,And want a walk, so I'll step on with you."
Down go my ears, in donkey-fashion, straight;You've seen them do it, when their load's too great."If I mistake not," he begins, "you'll findViscus not more, nor Varius, to yoar mind:There's not a man can turn a verse so soon,Or dance so nimbly when he hears a tune:While, as for singing--ah! my forte is there:Tigellius' self might envy me, I'll swear."
He paused for breath: I falteringly strike in:"Have you a mother? have you kith or kinTo whom your life is precious?" "Not a soul:My line's extinct: I have interred the whole."O happy they! (so into thought I fell)After life's endless babble they sleep well:My turn is next: dispatch me: for the weirdHas come to pass which I so long have feared,The fatal weird a Sabine beldame sung,All in my nursery days, when life was young:"No sword nor poison e'er shall take him off,Nor gout, nor pleurisy, nor racking cough:A babbling tongue shall kill him: let him flyAll talkers, as he wishes not to die."
We got to Vesta's temple, and the sunTold us a quarter of the day was done.It chanced he had a suit, and was bound fastEither to make appearance or be cast."Step here a moment, if you love me." "Nay;I know no law: 'twould hurt my health to stay:And then, my call." "I'm doubting what to do,Whether to give my lawsuit up or you."Me, pray!" "I will not." On he strides again:I follow, unresisting, in his train.
"How stand you with Maecenas?" he began:"He picks his friends with care; a shrewd wise man:In fact, I take it, one could hardly nameA head so cool in life's exciting game.'Twould be a good deed done, if you could throwYour servant in his way; I mean, you know,Just to play second: in a month, I'll swear,You'd make an end of every rival there.""O, you mistake: we don't live there in league:I know no house more sacred from intrigue:I'm never distanced in my friend's good graceBy wealth or talent: each man finds his place.""A miracle! if 'twere not told by you,I scarce should credit it." "And yet 'tis true.""Ah, well, you double my desire to riseTo special favour with a man so wise.""You've but to wish it: 'twill be your own fault,If, with your nerve, you win not by assault:He can be won: that puts him on his guard,And so the first approach is always hard.""No fear of me, sir: a judicious bribeWill work a wonder with the menial tribe:Say, I'm refused admittance for to-day;I'll watch my time; I'll meet him in the way,Escort him, dog him. In this world of oursThe path to what we want ne'er runs on flowers."
'Mid all this prate there met us, as it fell,Aristius, my good friend, who knew him well.We stop: inquiries and replies go round:"Where do you hail from?" "Whither are you bound?"There as he stood, impassive as a clod,I pull at his limp arms, frown, wink, and nod,To urge him to release me. With a smileHe feigns stupidity: I burn with bile."Something there was you said you wished to tellTo me in private." "Ay, I mind it well;But not just now: 'tis a Jews' fast to-day:Affront a sect so touchy! nay, friend, nay.""Faith, I've no scruples." "Ah! but I've a few:I'm weak, you know, and do as others do:Some other time: excuse me." Wretched me!That ever man so black a sun should see!Off goes the rogue, and leaves me in despair,Tied to the altar, with the knife in air:When, by rare chance, the plaintiff in the suitKnocks up against us: "Whither now, you brute?"He roars like thunder: then to me: "You'll standMy witness, sir?" "My ear's at your command."Off to the court he drags him: shouts succeed:A mob collects: thank Phoebus, I am freed.
10Satire 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 brainAs 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 faceWear 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 throughHard knots that gravity would scarce undo.On this the old comedians rested: henceThey're still the models of all men of sense,Despite Tigellius and his ape, whose songIs 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 knackCaught 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 appliedTo verse-making by you, and nought beside,Or would you practise it, when called to pleadFor poor Petillius, at his direst need?Forsooth, you choose that moment, to disownYour old forefathers, Latin to the bone,And while great Pedius and Corvinus strainAgainst you in pure Latin lungs and brain,Like double-tongued Canusian, try to speakA 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 viewAn 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, unmeetAt Tarpa's grave tribunal to compete,Or, mouthed by well-graced actors, be the rageOf mobs, and hold possession of the stage.
No hand can match Fundanius at a pieceWhere 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 farmTo Virgil lends her gayest, tenderest charm.For me, this walk of satire, vainly triedBy Atacinus and some few beside,Best suits my gait: yet readily I yieldTo him who first set footstep on that field,Nor meanly seek to rob him of the bayThat shows so comely on his locks of grey.
Well, but I called him muddy, said you'd findMore sand than gold in what he leaves behind.And you, sir Critic, does your finer senseIn 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 peruseLucilius' works, from asking, if I choose,If fate or chance forbade him to attainA 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 strongThat, when he died, his kinsfolk simply laidHis 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 seekIn 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 fileTo 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 penNot once nor twice but o'er and o'er againThrough what you've written, if you would enticeThe 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 scrawlDoled out by pedants for their boys to drawl?Not I: like hissed Arbuscula, I slightYour hooting mobs, if I can please a knight.
Shall bug Pantilius vex me? shall I chokeBecause Demetrius needs must have his jokeBehind my back, and Fannius, when he dinesWith dear Tigellius, vilifies my lines?Maecenas, Virgil, Varius, if I pleaseIn 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 disclaimAll 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 witAnd friendly hearts, I purposely omit;Such I would have my critics; men to gainWhose smiles were pleasure, to forego them pain,Demetrius and Tigellius, off! go puleTo the bare benches of your ladies' school!
Hallo there, youngster! take my book, you rogue,And write this in, by way of epilogue.