1Epistle I — To Maecenas (Prima dicte mihi)
Theme of my earliest Muse in days long past,Theme that shall be hereafter of my last,Why summon back, Maecenas, to the listYour worn-out swordsman, pensioned and dismissed?My age, my mind, no longer are the sameAs when I first was 'prenticed to the game.Veianius fastens to Alcides' gateHis arms, then nestles in his snug estate:Think you once more upon the arena's margeHe'd care to stand and supplicate discharge?No: I've a Mentor who, not once nor twice,Breathes in my well-rinsed ear his sound advice,"Give rest in time to that old horse, for fearAt last he founder 'mid the general jeer."So now I bid my idle songs adieu,And turn my thoughts to what is right and true;I search and search, and when I find, I layThe wisdom up against a rainy day.
But what's my sect? you ask me; I must beA member sure of some fraternity:Why no; I've taken no man's shilling; noneOf all your fathers owns me for his son;Just where the weather drives me, I inviteMyself to take up quarters for the night.Now, all alert, I cope with life's rough main,A loyal follower in true virtue's train:Anon, to Aristippus' camp I flit,And say, the world's for me, not I for it.
Long as the night to him whose love is gone,Long as the day to slaves that must work on,Slow as the year to the impatient wardWho finds a mother's tutelage too hard,So long, so slow the moments that preventThe execution of my high intent,Of studying truths that rich and poor concern,Which young and old are lost unless they learn.Well, if I cannot be a student, yetThere's good in spelling at the alphabet.Your eyes will never see like Lynceus'; stillYou rub them with an ointment when they're ill:You cannot hope for Glyco's stalwart frame,Yet you'd avoid the gout that makes you lame.Some point of moral progress each may gain,Though to aspire beyond it should prove vain.
Say, is your bosom fevered with the fireOf sordid avarice or unchecked desire?Know, there are spells will help you to allayThe pain, and put good part of it away.You're bloated by ambition? take advice;Yon book will ease you if you read it thrice.Run through the list of faults; whate'er you be,Coward, pickthank, spitfire, drunkard, debauchee,Submit to culture patiently, you'll findHer charms can humanize the rudest mind.
To fly from vice is virtue: to be freeFrom foolishness is wisdom's first degree.Think of some ill you feel a real disgrace,The loss of money or the loss of place;To keep yourself from these, how keen the strain!How dire the sweat of body and of brain!Through tropic heat, o'er rocks and seas you runTo furthest India, poverty to shun,Yet scorn the sage who offers you releaseFrom vagrant wishes that disturb your peace.Take some provincial pugilist, who gainsA paltry cross-way prize for all his pains;Place on his brow Olympia's chaplet, earnedWithout a struggle, would the gift be spurned?
Gold counts for more than silver, all men hold:Why doubt that virtue counts for more than gold?"Seek money first, good friends, and virtue next,"Each Janus lectures on the well-worn text;Lads learn it for their lessons; grey-haired men,Like schoolboys, drawl the sing-song o'er again.You lack, say, some six thousand of the rateThe law has settled as a knight's estate;Though soul, tongue, morals, credit, all the whileAre yours, you reckon with the rank and file.But mark those children at their play; they sing,"Deal fairly, youngster, and we'll crown you king."Be this your wall of brass, your coat of mail,A guileless heart, a cheek no crime turns pale.
"Which is the better teacher, tell me, pray,The law of Roscius, or the children's layThat crowns fair dealing, by Camillus trolled,And manly Curius, in the days of old;The voice that says, "Make money, money, man;Well, if so be,--if not, which way you can,"That from a nearer distance you may gazeAt honest Pupius' all too moving plays;Or that which bids you meet with dauntless brow,The frowns of Fortune, aye, and shows you how?
Suppose the world of Rome accosts me thus:"You walk where we walk; why not think with us,Be ours for better or for worse, pursueThe things we love, the things we hate eschew?"I answer as sly Reynard answered, whenThe ailing lion asked him to his den:"I'm frightened at those footsteps: every trackLeads to your home, but ne'er a one leads back."Nay, you're a perfect Hydra: who shall chooseWhich view to follow out of all your views?Some farm the taxes; some delight to seeTheir money grow by usury, like a tree;Some bait a widow-trap with fruits and cakes,And net old men, to stock their private lakes.But grant that folks have different hobbies; say,Does one man ride one hobby one whole day?"Baiae's the place!" cries Croesus: all is haste;The lake, the sea, soon feel their master's taste:A new whim prompts: 'tis "Pack your tools tonight!Off for Teanum with the dawn of light!"The nuptial bed is in his hall; he swearsNone but a single life is free from cares:Is he a bachelor? all human bliss,He vows, is centred in a wedded kiss.
How shall I hold this Proteus in my gripe?How fix him down in one enduring type?Turn to the poor: their megrims are as strange;Bath, cockloft, barber, eating-house, they change;They hire a boat; your born aristocratIs not more squeamish, tossing in his yacht.
If, when we meet, I'm cropped in awkward styleBy some uneven barber, then you smile;You smile, if, as it haps, my gown's askew,If my shirt's ragged while my tunic's new:How, if my mind's inconsequent, rejectsWhat late it longed for, what it loathed affects,Shifts every moment, with itself at strife,And makes a chaos of an ordered life,Builds castles up, then pulls them to the ground,Keeps changing round for square and square for round?You smile not; 'tis an every-day affair;I need no doctor's, no, nor keeper's care:Yet you're my patron, and would blush to failIn taking notice of an ill-pared nail.
So, to sum up: the sage is half divine,Rich, free, great, handsome, king of kings, in fine;A miracle of health from toe to crown,Mind, heart, and head, save when his nose runs down.
2Epistle II — To Lollius (Trojani belli scriptorem)
While you at Rome, dear Lollius, train your tongue,I at Praeneste read what Homer sung:What's good, what's bad, what helps, what hurts, he showsBetter in verse than Crantor does in prose.The reason why I think so, if you'll spareA moment from your business, I'll declare.
The tale that tells how Greece and Asia stroveIn tedious battle all for Paris' love,Talks of the passions that excite the brainOf mad-cap kings and peoples not more sane.Antenor moves to cut away the causeOf all their sufferings: does he gain applause?No; none shall force young Paris to enjoyLife, power and riches in his own fair Troy.Nestor takes pains the quarrel to composeThat makes Atrides and Achilles foes:In vain; their passions are too strong to quell;Both burn with wrath, and one with love as well.Let kings go mad and blunder as they may,The people in the end are sure to pay.Strife, treachery, crime, lust, rage, 'tis error all,One mass of faults within, without the wall.
Turn to the second tale: Ulysses showsHow worth and wisdom triumph over woes:He, having conquered Troy, with sharp shrewd kenExplores the manners and the towns of men;On the broad ocean, while he strives to winFor him and his return to home and kin,He braves untold calamities, borne downBy Fortune's waves, but never left to drown.The Sirens' song you know, and Circe's bowl:Had that sweet draught seduced his stupid soulAs it seduced his fellows, he had beenThe senseless chattel of a wanton queen,Sunk to the level of his brute desire,An unclean dog, a swine that loves the mire.But what are we? a mere consuming class,Just fit for counting roughly in the mass,Like to the suitors, or Alcinous' clan,Who spent vast pains upon the husk of man,Slept on till mid-day, and enticed their careTo rest by listening to a favourite air.
Robbers get up by night, men's throats to knive:Will you not wake to keep yourself alive?Well, if you will not stir when sound, at last,When dropsical, you'll be for moving fast:Unless you light your lamp ere dawn and readSome wholesome book that high resolves may breed,You'll find your sleep go from you, and will tossUpon your pillow, envious, lovesick, cross.You lose no time in taking out a fly,Or straw, it may be, that torments your eye;Why, when a thing devours your mind, adjournTill this day year all thought of the concern?Come now, have courage to be wise: begin:You're halfway over when you once plunge in:He who puts off the time for mending, standsA clodpoll by the stream with folded hands,Waiting till all the water be gone past;But it runs on, and will, while time shall last."Aye, but I must have money, and a brideTo bear me children, rich and well allied:Those uncleared lands want tilling." Having gotWhat will suffice you, seek no happier lot.Not house or grounds, not heaps of brass or goldWill rid the frame of fever's heat and cold.Or cleanse the heart of care. He needs good health,Body and mind, who would enjoy his wealth:Who fears or hankers, land and country-seatSoothe just as much as tickling gouty feet,As pictures charm an eye inflamed and blear,As music gratifies an ulcered ear.
Unless the vessel whence we drink is pure,Whate'er is poured therein turns foul, be sure.Make light of pleasure: pleasure bought with painYields little profit, but much more of bane.The miser's always needy: draw a lineWithin whose bound your wishes to confine.His neighbour's fatness makes the envious lean:No tyrant e'er devised a pang so keen.Who governs not his wrath will wish undoneThe deeds he did "when the rash mood was on."Wrath is a short-lived madness: curb and bitYour mind: 'twill rule you, if you rule not it
While the colt's mouth is soft, the trainer's skillMoulds it to follow at the rider's will.Soon as the whelp can bay the deer's stuffed skin,He takes the woods, and swells the hunters' din.Now, while your system's plastic, ope each pore;Now seek wise friends, and drink in all their lore:The smell that's first imparted will adhereTo seasoned jars through many an after year.
But if you lag behind or head me far,Don't think I mean to mend my pace, or mar;In my own jog-trot fashion on I go,Not vying with the swift, not waiting for the slow.
3Epistle III — To Julius Florus (Juli flore)
Florus, I wish to learn, but don't know how,Where Claudius and his troops are quartered now.Say, is it Thrace and Haemus' winter snows,Or the famed strait 'twixt tower and tower that flows,Or Asia's rich exuberance of plainAnd upland slope, that holds you in its chain?Inform me too (for that, you will not doubt,Concerns me), what the ingenious staff's about:Who writes of Caesar's triumphs, and portraysThe tale of peace and war for future days?How thrives friend Titius, who will soon becomeA household word in the saloons of Rome;Who dares to drink of Pindar's well, and looksWith scorn on our cheap tanks and vulgar brooks?Wastes he a thought on Horace? does he suitThe strains of Thebes or Latium's virgin lute,By favour of the Muse, or grandly rageAnd roll big thunder on the tragic stage?What is my Celsus doing? oft, in truth,I've warned him, and he needs it yet, good youth,To trust himself, nor touch the classic storesThat Palatine Apollo keeps indoors,Lest when some day the feathered tribe resumes(You know the tale) the appropriated plumes,Folks laugh to see him act the jackdaw's part,Denuded of the dress that looked so smart.
And you, what aims are yours? what thymy groundAllures the bee to hover round and round?Not small your wit, nor rugged and unkempt;'Twill answer bravely to a bold attempt:Whether you train for pleading, or essayTo practise law, or frame some graceful lay,The ivy-wreath awaits you. Could you bearTo leave quack nostrums, that but palliate care,Then might you lean on heavenly wisdom's handAnd use her guidance to a loftier land.Be this our task, whate'er our station, whoTo country and to self would fain be true.
This too concerns me: does Munatius holdIn Florus' heart the place he held of old,Or is that ugly breach in your good willWe hoped had closed unhealed and gaping still?Well, be it youth or ignorance of lifeThat sets your hot ungoverned bloods at strife,Where'er you bide, 'twere shame to break the tiesWhich made you once sworn brethren and allies:So, when your safe return shall come to pass,I've got a votive heifer out at grass.
4Epistle IV — To Albius Tibullus (Albi, nostrorum)
Albius, kind critic of my satires, say,What do you down at Pedum far away?Are you composing what will dim the shineOf Cassius' works, so delicately fine,Or sauntering, calm and healthful, through the wood,Bent on such thoughts as suit the wise and good?No brainless trunk is yours: a form to please,Wealth, wit to use it, Heaven vouchsafes you these.What could fond nurse wish more for her sweet petThan friends, good looks, and health without a let,A shrewd clear head, a tongue to speak his mind,A seemly household, and a purse well-lined?
Let hopes and sorrows, fears and angers be,And think each day that dawns the last you'll see;For so the hour that greets you unforeseenWill bring with it enjoyment twice as keen.
Ask you of me? you'll laugh to find me grownA hog of Epicurus, full twelve stone.
5Epistle V — To Torquatus (Si potes archiacis)
If you can lie, Torquatus, when you takeYour meal, upon a couch of Archias' make,And sup off potherbs, gathered as they come,You'll join me, please, by sunset at my home.My wine, not far from Sinuessa grown,Is but six years in bottle, I must own:If you've a better vintage, send it here,Or take your cue from him who finds the cheer.My hearth is swept, my household looks its best,And all my furniture expects a guest.Forego your dreams of riches and applause,Forget e'en Moschus' memorable cause;To-morrow's Caesar's birthday, which we keepBy taking, to begin with, extra sleep;So, if with pleasant converse we prolongThis summer night, we scarcely shall do wrong.
Why should the Gods have put me at my ease,If I mayn't use my fortune as I please?The man who stints and pinches for his heirIs next-door neighbour to a fool, I'll swear.Here, give me flowers to strew, my goblet fill,And let men call me mad-cap if they will.O, drink is mighty! secrets it unlocks,Turns hope to fact, sets cowards on to box,Takes burdens from the careworn, finds out partsIn stupid folks, and teaches unknown arts.What tongue hangs fire when quickened by the bowl?What wretch so poor but wine expands his soul?
Meanwhile, I'm bound in duty, nothing both,To see that nought in coverlet or clothMay give you cause to sniff, that dish and cupMay serve you as a mirror while you sup;To have my guests well-sorted, and take careThat none is present who'll tell tales elsewhere.You'll find friend Butra and Septicius here,Ditto Sabinus, failing better cheer:And each might bring a friend or two as well,But then, you know, close packing's apt to smell.Come, name your number, and elude the guardYour client keeps by slipping through the yard.
6Epistle VI — To Numicius (Nil admirari)
Not to admire, Numicius, is the best,The only way, to make and keep men blest.The sun, the stars, the seasons of the yearThat come and go, some gaze at without fear:What think you of the gifts of earth and sea,The untold wealth of Ind or Araby,Or, to come nearer home, our games and shows,The plaudits and the honours Rome bestows?How should we view them? ought they to convulseThe well-strung frame and agitate the pulse?Who fears the contrary, or who desiresThe things themselves, in either case admires;Each way there's flutter; something unforeseenDisturbs the mind that else had been serene.Joy, grief, desire or fear, whate'er the nameThe passion bears, its influence is the same;Where things exceed your hope or fall below,You stare, look blank, grow numb from top to toe.E'en virtue's self, if followed to excess,Turns right to wrong, good sense to foolishness.
Go now, my friend, drink in with all your eyesBronze, silver, marble, gems, and Tyrian dyes,Feel pride when speaking in the sight of Rome,Go early out to 'Change and late come home,For fear your income drop beneath the rateThat comes to Mutus from his wife's estate,And (shame and scandal!), though his line is new,You give the pas to him, not he to you.Whate'er is buried mounts at last to light,While things get hid in turn that once looked bright.So when Agrippa's mall and Appius' wayHave watched your well-known figure day by day,At length the summons comes, and you must goTo Numa and to Ancus down below.
Your side's in pain; a doctor hits the blot:You wish to live aright (and who does not?);If virtue holds the secret, don't defer;Be off with pleasure, and be on with her.But no; you think all morals sophists' tricks,Bring virtue down to words, a grove to sticks;Then hey for wealth! quick, quick, forestall the tradeWith Phrygia and the East, your fortune's made.One thousand talents here--one thousand there--A third--a fourth, to make the thing four-square.A dowried wife, friends, beauty, birth, fair fame,These are the gifts of money, heavenly dame:Be but a moneyed man, persuasion tipsYour tongue, and Venus settles on your lips.The Cappadocian king has slaves enow,But gold he lacks: so be it not with you.Lucullus was requested once, they say,A hundred scarves to furnish for the play:"A hundred!" he replied, "'tis monstrous; stillI'll look; and send you what I have, I will."Ere long he writes: "Five thousand scarves I find;Take part of them, or all if you're inclined."That's a poor house where there's not much to spareWhich masters never miss and servants wear.So, if 'tis wealth that makes and keeps us blest,Be first to start and last to drop the quest.
If power and mob-applause be man's chief aims,Let's hire a slave to tell us people's names,To jog us on the side, and make us reach,At risk of tumbling down, a hand to each:"This rules the Fabian, that the Veline clan;Just as he likes, he seats or ousts his man:"Observe their ages, have your greeting pat,And duly "brother" this, and "father" that.
Say that the art to live's the art to sup,Go fishing, hunting, soon as sunlight's up,As did Gargilius, who at break of daySwept with his nets and spears the crowded way,Then, while all Rome looked on in wonder, broughtHome on a single mule a boar he'd bought.Thence pass on to the bath-room, gorged and crude,Our stomachs stretched with undigested food,Lost to all self-respect, all sense of shame,Disfranchised freemen, Romans but in name,Like to Ulysses' crew, that worthless band,Who cared for pleasure more than fatherland.
If, as Mimnermus tells you, life is flatWith nought to love, devote yourself to that.
Farewell: if you can mend these precepts, do:If not, what serves for me may serve for you.
7Epistle VII — To Maecenas (Quinque dies tibi pollicitus)
Five days I told you at my farm I'd stay,And lo! the whole of August I'm away.Well, but, Maecenas, yon would have me live,And, were I sick, my absence you'd forgive;So let me crave indulgence for the fearOf falling ill at this bad time of year,When, thanks to early figs and sultry heat,The undertaker figures with his suite,When fathers all and fond mammas grow paleAt what may happen to their young heirs male,And courts and levees, town-bred mortals' ills,Bring fevers on, and break the seals of wills.When winter strews the Alban fields with snow,Down to the sea your chilly bard will go,There keep the house and study at his ease,All huddled up together, nose and knees:With the first swallow, if you'll have him then,He'll come, dear friend, and visit you again.
Not like the coarse Calabrian boor, who pressedHis store of pears upon a sated guest,Have you bestowed your favours. "Eat them, pray.""I've done." "Then carry all you please away.""I thank you, no." "Your boys won't like you lessFor taking home a sack of them, I guess.""I could not thank you more if I took all.""Ah well, if you won't eat them, the pigs shall."'Tis silly prodigality, to throwThose gifts broadcast whose value you don't know:Such tillage yields ingratitude, and will,While human nature is the soil you till.A wise good man has ears for merit's claim,Yet does not reckon brass and gold the same.I also will "assume desert," and proveI value him whose bounty speaks his love.
If you would keep me always, give me backMy sturdy sides, my clustering locks of black,My pleasant voice and laugh, the tears I shedThat night when Cinara from the table fled.A poor pinched field-mouse chanced to make its wayThrough a small rent in a wheat-sack one day,And, having gorged and stuffed, essayed in vainTo squeeze its body through the hole again:"Ah!" cried a weasel, "wait till you get thin;Then, if you will, creep out as you crept in."Well, if to me the story folks apply,I give up all I've got without a sigh:Not mine to cram down guinea-fowls, and thenHeap praises on the sleep of labouring men;Give me a country life and leave me free,I would not choose the wealth of Araby.
I've called you Father, praised your royal graceBehind your back as well as to your face;You've owned I have a conscience: try me nowIf I can quit your gifts with cheerful brow.That was a prudent answer which, we're told,The son of wise Ulysses made of old:"Our Ithaca is scarce the place for steeds;It has no level plains, no grassy meads:Atrides, if you'll let me, I'll declineA gift that better meets your wants than mine."Small things become small folks: imperial RomeIs all too large, too bustling for a home;The empty heights of Tibur, or the bayOf soft Tarentum, more are in my way.
Philip, the famous counsel, years ago,Was moving home at two, sedate and slow,Old, and fatigued with pleading at the bar,And grumbling that he lived away so far,When suddenly he chanced his eye to dropOn a spruce personage in a barber's shop,Who in the shopman's absence lounged at ease,Paring his nails as calmly as you please."Demetrius"--so was called the slave he keptTo do his errands, a well-trained adept--"Find out about that man for me; enquireHis name and rank, his patron or his sire."He soon brings word that Mena is the name,An auction-crier, poor, but without blame,One who can work or idle, get or spend,Who loves his home and likes to see a friend,Enjoys the circus, and when work's got through,Hies to the field, and does as others do."I'll hear the details from himself: go sayI'll thank him if he'll sup with me to-day."Mena can scarce believe it; posed and mumHe ponders; then, with thanks, declines to come."What? does he dare to say me nay?" "Just so;Be it reserve or disrespect, 'tis no."Philip next morn finds Mena at a sale"Where odds and ends are going by retail,And greets him first. He, stammeringly profuse,Alleges ties of business in excuseFor not by day-break knocking at his door,And last, for not observing him before."Well, bygones shall be bygones, if so beYou'll come this afternoon and sup with me.""I'm at your service." "Then 'twixt four and fiveYou'll come: now go, and do your best to thrive."He's there in time; what comes into his headHe chatters, right or wrong; then off to bed.So, when he'd learnt to nibble at the bait,At levee early and at supper late,One holiday he's bidden to come downWith Philip to his villa out of town.Astride on horseback, both, he vows, are rare,The Sabine country and the Sabine air.Philip looks on and chuckles, his one aimTo get a laugh by keeping up the game,Lends him seven hundred, gives him out of handSeven more, and leads him on to buy some land.'Tis bought: to make a lengthy tale concise,The man becomes a clown who once was nice,Talks all of elms and vineyards, ploughs and soil,And ages fast with struggling and sheer toil;Till, when his sheep are stolen, his bullock drops,His goats die off, a blight destroys his crops,One night he takes a waggon-horse, and soreWith all his losses, rides to Philip's door.Philip perceives him squalid and unshorn,And cries, "Why, Mena! surely you look worn;You work too hard." "Nay, call me wretch," says he,"Good patron; 'tis the only name for me.So now, by all that's binding among men,I beg you, give me my old life again."
He that finds out he's changed his lot for worse,Let him betimes the untoward choice reverse:For still, when all is said, the rule stands fast,That each man's shoe be made on his own last.
8Epistle VIII — To Celsus Albinovanus (Celso gaudere)
Health to friend Celsus--so, good Muse, report--Who holds the pen in Nero's little court!If asked about me, say, I plan and plan,Yet live a useless and unhappy man:Sunstrokes have spared my olives, hail my vines;No herd of mine in far-off pasture pines:Yet ne'ertheless I suffer; hourly teasedLess by a body than a mind diseased,No ear have I to hear, no heart to heedThe words of wisdom that might serve my need,Frown on my doctors, with the friends am wrothWho fain would rouse me from my fatal sloth,Seek what has harmed me, shun what looks of use,Town-bird at Tibur, and at Rome recluse.Then ask him how his health is, how he fares,How prospers with the prince and his confreres.If he says Well, first tell him you rejoice,Then add one little hint (but drop your voice),"As Celsus bears his fortune well or ill,So bear with Celsus his acquaintance will."
9Epistle IX — To Tiberius Claudius Nero (Septimius, claudi)
Septimius, Nero, seems to comprehend,As none else does, how you esteem your friend:For when he begs, nay, forces me, good man,To move you in his favour, if I can,As not unfit the heart and home to shareOf Claudius, who selects his staff with care,Bidding me act as though I filled the placeOf one you honour with your special grace,He sees and knows what I may safely tryBy way of influence better e'en than I.Believe me, many were the pleas I usedIn the vain hope to get myself excused:But then there came a natural fear, you know,Lest I should seem to rate my powers too low,To make a snug peculium of my own,And keep my influence for myself alone:So, fearing to incur more serious blame,I bronze my front, step down, and play my game.If then you praise the sacrifice I makeIn waiving modesty for friendship's sake,Admit him to your circle, when you've readThese lines, and trust me for his heart and head.
10Epistle X — To Aristius Fuscus (Urbis amatorem)
To Fuscus, lover of the city, IWho love the country, wish prosperity:In this one thing unlike, in all besideWe might be twins, so nearly we're allied;Sharing each other's hates, each other's loves,We bill and coo, like two familiar doves.You keep the nest: I love the rural scene,Fresh runnels, moss-grown rocks, and woodland green.What would you more? once let me leave the thingsYou praise so much, my life is like a king's:Like the priest's runaway, I cannot eatYour cakes, but pine for bread of wholesome wheat.
Now say that it behoves us to adjustOur lives to nature (wisdom says we must):You want a site for building: can you findA place that's like the country to your mind?Where have you milder winters? where are airsThat breathe more grateful when the Dogstar glares,Or when the Lion feels in every veinThe sun's sharp thrill, and maddens with the pain?Is there a spot where care contrives to keepAt further distance from the couch of sleep?Is springing grass less sweet to nose or eyesThan Libyan marble's tesselated dyes?Does purer water strain your pipes of leadThan that which ripples down the brooklet's bed?Why, 'mid your Parian columns trees you train,And praise the house that fronts a wide domain.Drive Nature forth by force, she'll turn and routThe false refinements that would keep her out.
The luckless wight who can't tell side by sideA Tyrian fleece from one Aquinum-dyed,Is not more surely, keenly, made to smartThan he who knows not truth and lies apart.Take too much pleasure in good things, you'll feelThe shock of adverse fortune makes you reel.Regard a thing with wonder, with a wrenchYou'll give it up when bidden to retrench.Keep clear of courts: a homely life transcendsThe vaunted bliss of monarchs and their friends.
The stag was wont to quarrel with the steed,Nor let him graze in common on the mead:The steed, who got the worst in each attack,Asked help from man, and took him on his back:But when his foe was quelled, he ne'er got ridOf his new friend, still bridled and bestrid.So he who, fearing penury, loses holdOf independence, better far than gold,Will toil, a hopeless drudge, till life is spent,Because he'll never, never learn content.Means should, like shoes, be neither large nor small;Too wide, they trip us up, too strait, they gall.
Then live contented, Fuscus, nor be slowTo give a friendly rap to one you know,Whene'er you find me struggling to increaseMy neat sufficiency, and ne'er at peace.Gold will be slave or master: 'tis more fitThat it be led by us than we by it.
From tumble-down Vacuna's fane I write,Wanting but you to make me happy quite.
11Epistle XI — To Bullatius (Quid tibi visa chios?)
How like you Chios, good Bullatius? whatThink you of Lesbos, that world-famous spot?What of the town of Samos, trim and neat,And what of Sardis, Croesus' royal seat?Of Smyrna what and Colophon? are theyGreater or less than travellers' stories say?Do all look poor beside our scenes at home,The field of Mars, the river of old Rome?Say, is your fancy fixed upon some townWhich formed a gem in Attalus's crown?Or would you turn to Lebedus for easeIn mere disgust at weary roads and seas?You know what Lebedus is like; so bare,With Gabii or Fidenae 'twould compare;Yet there, methinks, I would accept my lot,My friends forgetting, by my friends forgot,Stand on the cliff at distance, and surveyThe stormy sea-god's wild Titanic play.Yet he that comes from Capua, dashing inTo Rome, all splashed and wetted to the skin,Though in a tavern glad one night to bide,Would not be pleased to live there till he died:If he gets cold, he lets his fancy roveIn quest of bliss beyond a bath or stove:And you, though tossed just now by a stiff breeze,Don't therefore sell your vessel beyond seas.
But what are Rhodes and Lesbos, and the rest,E'en let a traveller rate them at their best?No more the wants of healthy minds they meetThan does a jersey in a driving sleet,A cloak in summer, Tiber through the snow,A chafing-dish in August's midday glow.So, while health lasts, and Fortune keeps her smiles,We'll pay our devoir to your Grecian isles,Praise them on this condition--that we stayIn our own land, a thousand miles away.
Seize then each happy hour the gods dispense,Nor fix enjoyment for a twelvemonth hence.So may you testify with truth, where'erYou're quartered, 'tis a pleasure to be there:For if the cure of mental ills is dueTo sense and wisdom, not a fine sea-view,We come to this; when o'er the world we range'Tis but our climate, not our mind we change.What active inactivity is this,To go in ships and cars to search for bliss!No; what you seek, at Ulubrae you'll find,If to the quest you bring a balanced mind.
12Epistle XII — TO Iccitus (Fructibus agrippae)
If, worthy Iccius, properly you useWhat you collect, Agrippa's revenues,You're well supplied: and Jove himself could tellNo way to make you better off than well.A truce to murmuring: with another's storeTo use at pleasure, who shall call you poor?Sides, stomach, feet, if these are all in health,What more could man procure with princely wealth?
If, with a well-spread table, when you dine,To plain green food your eating you confine,Though some fine day a rich Pactolian rillShould flood your house, you'd munch your pot-herbs still,From habit or conviction, which o'er-rideThe power of gold, and league on virtue's side.No need to marvel at the stories toldOf simple-sage Democritus of old,How, while his soul was soaring in the sky,The sheep got in and nibbled down his rye,When, spite of lucre's strong contagion, yetOn lofty problems all your thoughts are set,--What checks the sea, what heats and cools the year,If law or impulse guides the starry sphere,"What power presides o'er lunar wanderings,What means the jarring harmony of things,Which after all is wise, and which the fool,Empedooles or the Stertinian school.
But whether you're for taking fishes' life,Or against leeks and onions whet your knife,Let Grosphus be your friend, and should he pleadFor aught he wants, anticipate his need:He'll never outstep reason; and you know,When good men lack, the price of friends is low.
But what of Rome? Agrippa has increasedHer power in Spain, Tiberius in the East:Phraates, humbly bending on his knee,Submits himself to Csesar's sovereignty:While golden Plenty from her teeming hornPours down on Italy abundant corn.
13Epistle XIII — To Vinius Asella (Ut proficiscentem)
As I have told you oft, deliver these,My sealed-up volumes, to Augustus, please,Friend Vinius, if he's well and in good trim,And (one proviso more) if asked by him:Beware of over-zeal, nor discommendMy works, by playing the impetuous friend.Suppose my budget, ere you get to town,Should gall you, better straightway throw it downThan, when you've reached the palace, fling the packWith animal impatience from your back,And so be thought in nature as in nameTour father's colt, and made some joker's game.Tour powers of tough endurance will availWith brooks and ponds to ford and hills to scale:But when you've quelled the perils of the road,Take special care how you adjust your load:Don't tuck beneath your arm these precious gifts,As drunken Pyrrhia does the wool she lifts,As rustics do a lamb, as humble wightsTheir cap and slippers when asked out at nights.Don't tell the world you've toiled and sweated hardIn carrying lays which Caesar may regard:Push on, nor stop for questions. Now good bye;But pray don't trip, and smash the poetry.
14Epistle XIV — To His Bailiff (Villice silvarum)
Good bailiff of my farm, that snug domainWhich makes its master feel himself again,Which, though you sniff at it, could once supportFive hearths, and send five statesmen to the court,Let's have a match in husbandry; we'll tryWhich can do weeding better, you or I,And see if Horace more repays the handThat clears him of his thistles, or his land.Though here I'm kept administering reliefTo my poor Lamia's broken-hearted griefFor his lost brother, ne'ertheless my thoughtFlies to my woods, and counts the distance nought.You praise the townsman's, I the rustic's state:Admiring others' lots, our own we hate:Each blames the place he lives in: but the mindIs most in fault, which ne'er leaves self behind.A town-house drudge, for farms you used to sigh;Now towns and shows and baths are all your cry:But I'm consistent with myself: you knowI grumble, when to Rome I'm forced to go.Truth is, our standards differ: what your tasteCondemns, forsooth, as so much savage waste,The man who thinks with Horace thinks divine,And hates the things which you believe so fine.I know your secret: 'tis the cook-shop breedsThat lively sense of what the country needs:You grieve because this little nook of mineWould bear Arabian spice as soon as wine;Because no tavern happens to be nighWhere you can go and tipple on the sly,No saucy flute-girl, at whose jigging soundYou bring your feet down lumbering to the ground.And yet, methinks, you've plenty on your handsIn breaking up these long unharrowed lands;The ox, unyoked and resting from the plough,Wants fodder, stripped from elm or poplar bough;You've work too at the river, when there's rain,As, but for a strong bank,'twould flood the plain.Now have a little patience, you shall seeWhat makes the gulf between yourself and me:I, who once wore gay clothes and well-dressed hair,I, who, though poor, could please a greedy fair,I, who could sit from mid-day o'er Falern,Now like short meals and slumbers by the burn:No shame I deem it to have had my sport;The shame had been in frolics not cut short.There at my farm I fear no evil eye;No pickthank blights my crops as he goes by;My honest neighbours laugh to see me wieldA heavy rake, or dibble my own field.Were wishes wings, you'd join my slaves in town,And share the rations that they swallow down;While that sharp footboy envies you the useOf what my garden, flocks, and woods produce.The horse would plough, the ox would draw the car.No; do the work you know, and tarry where you are.
15Epistle XV — To C. Numonius Vala (Quae sit hiems veliae)
If Velia and Salernum tell me, pray,The climate, and the natives, and the way:For Baiae now is lost on me, and I,Once its staunch friend, am turned its enemy,Through Musa's fault, who makes me undergoHis cold-bath treatment, spite of frost and snow.Good sooth, the town is filled with spleen, to seeIts myrtle-groves attract no company;To find its sulphur-wells, which forced out painFrom joint and sinew, treated with disdainBy tender chests and heads, now grown so bold,They brave cold water in the depth of cold,And, finding down at Clusium what they want,Or Gabii, say, make that their winter haunt.Yes, I must change my quarters; my good horseMust pass the inns where once he stopped of course."How now, you creature? I'm not bound to-dayFor Cumae or for Baiae," I shall say,Pulling the left rein angrily, becauseA horse when bridled listens through his jaws.Which place is best supplied with corn, d'ye think?Have they rain-water or fresh springs to drink?Their wines I care not for: when at my farmI can drink any sort without much harm;But at the sea I need a generous kindTo warm my veins and pass into my mind,Enrich me with new hopes, choice words supply,And make me comely in a lady's eye.Which tract is best for game, on which sea-coastUrchins and other fish abound the most,That so, when I return, my friends may seeA sleek Phaeacian come to life in me:These things you needs must tell me, Vala dear,And I no less must act on what I hear.
When Maenius, after nobly gobbling downHis fortune, took to living on the town,A social beast of prey, with no fixed home,He ranged and ravened o'er the whole of Rome;His maw unfilled, he'd turn on friend and foe;None was too high for worrying, none too low;The scourge and murrain of each butcher's shop,Whate'er he got, he stuffed into his crop.So, when he'd failed in getting e'er a bitFrom those who liked or feared his wicked wit,Then down a throat of three-bear power he'd cramPlate after plate of offal, tripe or lamb,And swear, as Bestius might, your gourmand knavesShould have their stomachs branded like a slave's.But give the brute a piece of daintier prey,When all was done, he'd smack his lips and say,"In faith I cannot wonder, when I hearOf folks who waste a fortune on good cheer,For there's no treat in nature more divineThan a fat thrush or a big paunch of swine."I'm just his double: when my purse is leanI hug myself, and praise the golden mean,Stout when not tempted; but suppose some dayA special titbit comes into my way,I vow man's happiness is ne'er completeTill based on a substantial country seat.
16Epistle XVI — To Quinctius (Ne perconteris)
About my farm, dear Quinctius; you would knowWhat sort of produce for its lord 'twill grow;Plough-land is it, or meadow-land, or soilFor apples, vine-clad elms, or olive oil?So (but you'll think me garrulous) I'll writeA full description of its form and site.In long continuous line the mountains run,Cleft by a valley which twice feels the sun,Once on the right when first he lifts his beams,Once on the left, when he descends in steams.You'd praise the climate: well, and what d'ye sayTo sloes and cornels hanging from the spray?What to the oak and ilex, that affordFruit to the cattle, shelter to their lord?What, but that rich Tarentum must have beenTransplanted nearer Rome with all its green?Then there's a fountain of sufficient sizeTo name the river that takes thence its rise,Not Thracian Hebrus colder or more pure,Of power the head's and stomach's ills to cure.This sweet retirement--nay, 'tis more than sweet--Ensures my health e'en in September's heat.
And how fare you? if you deserve in truthThe name men give you, you're a happy youth:Rome's thousand tongues, agreed at least in this,Ascribe to you a plenitude of bliss.Yet, when you judge of self, I fear you're proneTo take another's word before your own,To think of happiness as 'twere a prizeThat men may win though neither good nor wise:Just so the glutton whom the world thinks wellKeeps dark his fever till the dinner-bell;Then, as he's eating, with his hands well greased,Shivering comes on, and proves the fool diseased.O, 'tis a false, false shame that would concealFrom doctors' eyes the sores it cannot heal!
Suppose a man should trumpet your successBy land and sea, and make you this address:"May Jove, who watches with the same good-willO'er you and Rome, preserve the secret still,Whether the heart within you beats more trueTo Rome and to her sons, or theirs to you!"Howe'er your ears might flatter you, you'd sayThe praise was Caesar's, and had gone astray.Yet should the town pronounce you wise and good,You'd take it to yourself, you know you would."Take it? of course I take it," you reply;"You love the praise yourself, then why not I?"Aye, but the town, that gives you praise to-day,Next week can snatch it, if it please, away,As in elections it can mend mistakes,And whom it makes one year, the next unmakes."Lay down the fasces," it exclaims; "they're mine:"I lay them down, and sullenly resign.Well now, if "Thief" and "Profligate" they roar,Or lay my father's murder at my door,Am I to let their lying scandals biteAnd change my honest cheeks from red to white?Trust me, false praise has charms, false blame has painsBut for vain hearts, long ears, and addled brains.
Whom call we good? The man who keeps intactEach law, each right, each statute and each act,Whose arbitration terminates dispute,Whose word's a bond, whose witness ends a suit.Yet his whole house and all the neighbours knowHe's bad at heart, despite his decent show."I," says a slave, "ne'er ran away nor stole:"Well, what of that? say I: your skin is whole."I've shed no blood." You shall not feed the orow."I'm good and true." We Sabine folks say No:The wolf avoids the pit, the hawk the snare,And hidden hooks teach fishes to beware.'Tis love of right that keeps the good from wrong;You do no harm because you fear the thong;Could you be sure that no one would detect,E'en sacrilege might tempt you, I suspect.Steal but one bean, although the loss be small,The crime's as great as if you stole them all.
See your good man, who oft as he appearsIn court commands all judgments and all ears;Observe him now, when to the gods he paysHis ox or swine, and listen what he says:"Great Janus, Phoebus"--this he speaks aloud;The rest is muttered all and unavowed--"Divine Laverna, grant me safe disguise;Let me seem just and upright in men's eyes;Shed night upon my crimes, a glamour o'er my lies."
Say, what's a miser but a slave completeWhen he'd pick up a penny in the street?Fearing's a part of coveting, and heWho lives in fear is no freeman for me.The wretch whose thoughts by gain are all engrossedHas flung away his sword, betrayed his post.Don't kill your captive: keep him: he will sell;Some things there are the creature will do well:He'll plough and feed the cattle, cross the deepAnd traffic, carry corn, make produce cheap.
The wise and good, like Bacchus in the play,When Fortune threats, will have the nerve to say:"Great king of Thebes, what pains can you deviseThe man who will not serve you to chastise?""I'll take your goods." "My flocks, my land, to wit,My plate, my couches: do, if you think fit.""I'll keep you chained and guarded in close thrall.""A god will come to free me when I call."Yes, he will die; 'tis that the bard intends;For when Death comes, the power of Fortune ends.
17Epistle XVII — To Scaeva (Quamvis, Scaeva)
Though instinct tells you, Scaeva, how to act,And makes you live among the great with tact,Yet hear a fellow-student; 'tis as thoughThe blind should point you out the way to go,But still give heed, and see if I produceAught that hereafter you may find of use.
If rest is what you like, and sleep till eight,If dust and rumbling wheels are what you hate,If tavern-life disgusts you, then repairTo Ferentinum, and turn hermit there;For wealth has no monopoly of bliss,And life unnoticed is not lived amiss:But if you'd help your friends, and like a treat,Then drop dry bread, and take to juicy meat."If Aristippus could but dine off greens,He'd cease to cultivate his kings and queens.""If that rude snarler knew but queens and kings,He'd find his greens unpalatable things."Thus far the rival sages. Tell me true,Whose words you think the wiser of the two,Or hear (to listen is a junior's place)Why Aristippus has the better case;For he, the story goes, with this remarkOnce stopped the Cynic's aggravating bark:"Buffoon I may be, but I ply my tradeFor solid value; you ply yours unpaid.I pay my daily duty to the great,That I may ride a horse and dine in state;You, though you talk of independence, yet,Each time you beg for scraps, contract a debt."All lives sat well on Aristippus; thoughHe liked the high, he yet could grace the low;But the dogged sage whose blanket folds in twoWould be less apt in changing old for new.Take from the one his robe of costly red,He'll not refuse to dress, or keep his bed;Clothed as you please, he'll walk the crowded street,And, though not fine, will manage to look neat.Put purple on the other, not the touchOf toad or asp would startle him so much;Give back his blanket, or he'll die of chill:Yes, give it back; he's too absurd to kill.
To win great fights, to lead before men's eyesA captive foe, is half way to the skies:Just so, to gain by honourable waysA great man's favour is no vulgar praise:You know the proverb, "Corinth town is fair,But 'tis not every man that can get there."One man sits still, not hoping to succeed;One makes the journey; he's a man indeed!'Tis that we look for; not to shift a weightWhich little frames and little souls think great,But stoop and bear it. Virtue's a mere name,Or 'tis high venture that achieves high aim.
Those who have tact their poverty to maskBefore their chief get more than those who ask;It makes, you see, a difference, if you takeAs modest people do, or snatch your cake;Yet that's the point from which our question starts,By what way best to get at patrons' hearts."My mother's poor, my sister's dower is due,My farm won't sell or yield us corn enow,"What is all this but just the beggar's cry,"I'm starving; give me food for charity"?"Ah!" whines another in a minor key,"The loaf's in out; pray spare a slice for me."But if in peace the raven would have fed,He'd have had less of clawing, more of bread.
A poor companion whom his friend takes downTo fair Surrentum or Brundisium's town,If he makes much of cold, bad roads, and rain,Or moans o'er cash-box forced and money ta'en,Reminds us of a girl, some artful thing,Who cries for a lost bracelet or a ring,With this result, that when she comes to grieveFor real misfortunes, no one will believe.So, hoaxed by one impostor, in the streetA man won't set a cripple on his feet,Though he invoke Osiris, and appealWith streaming tears to hearts that will not feel,"Lift up a poor lame man! I tell no lie;""Treat foreigners to that," the neighbours cry.
18Epistle XVIII — To Lollius (Si bene te novi)
You'd blush, good Lollius, if I judge you right,To mix the parts of friend and parasite.'Twixt parasite and friend a gulf is placed,Wide as between the wanton and the chaste;Yet think not flattery friendship's only curse:A different vice there is, perhaps a worse,A brutal boorishness, which fain would winRegard by unbrushed teeth and close-shorn skin,Yet all the while is anxious to be thoughtPure independence, acting as it ought.Between these faults 'tis Virtue's place to stand,At distance from the extreme on either hand.The flatterer by profession, whom you seeAt every feast among the lowest three,Hangs on his patron's looks, takes up each wordWhich, dropped by chance, might else expire unheard,Like schoolboys echoing what their masters sayIn sing-song drawl, or Gnatho in the play:While your blunt fellow battles for a straw,As though he'd knock you down or take the law:"How now, good sir? you mean my word to doubt?When I once think a thing, I mayn't speak out?Though living on your terms were living twice,Instead of once, 'twere dear at such a price."And what's the question that brings on these fits?--Does Dolichos or Castor make more hits?Or, starting for Brundisium, will it payTo take the Appian or Minucian way?
Him that gives in to dice or lewd excess,Who apes rich folks in equipage and dress,Who meanly covets to increase his store,And shrinks as meanly from the name of poor,That man his patron, though on all those headsPerhaps a worse offender, hates and dreads,Or says to him what tender parents say,Who'd have their children better men than they:"Don't vie with me," he says, and he says true;"My wealth will bear the silly things I do;Yours is a slender pittance at the best;A wise man cuts his coat--you know the rest."Eutrapelus, whene'er a grudge he owedTo any, gave him garments a la mode;Because, said he, the wretch will feel inspiredWith new conceptions when he's new attired;He'll sleep through half the day, let business goFor pleasure, teach a usurer's cash to grow;At last he'll turn a fencer, or will trudgeBeside a cart, a market-gardener's drudge.
Avoid all prying; what you're told, keep back,Though wine or anger put you on the rack;Nor puff your own, nor slight your friend's pursuits,Nor court the Muses when he'd chase the brutes.'Twas thus the Theban brethren jarred, untilThe harp that vexed the stern one became still.Amphion humoured his stern brother: well,Your friend speaks gently; do not you rebel:No; when he gives the summons, and preparesTo take the field with hounds, and darts, and snares,Leave your dull Muse to sulkiness and sloth,That both may feast on dainties earned by both.'Tis a true Roman pastime, and your frameWill gain thereby, no less than your good name:Besides, you're strong; in running you can matchThe dogs, and kill the fiercest boar you catch:Who plays like you? you have but to appearIn Mars's field to raise a general cheer:Remember too, you served a hard campaign,When scarce past boyhood, in the wars of Spain,Beneath his lead who brings our standards home,And makes each nook of earth a prize for Rome.Just one thing more, lest still you should refuseAnd show caprice that nothing can excuse:Safe as you are from doing aught unmeet,You sometimes trifle at your father's seat;The Actian fight in miniature you play,With boats for ships, your lake for Hadria's bay,Your brother for your foe, your slaves for crews,And so you battle till you win or lose.Let your friend see you share his taste, he'll vowHe never knew what sport was like till now.
Well, to proceed; beware, if there is roomFor warning, what you mention, and to whom;Avoid a ceaseless questioner; he burnsTo tell the next he talks with what he learns;Wide ears retain no secrets, and you knowYou can't get back a word you once let go.
Look round and round the man you recommend,For yours will be the shame should he offend.Sometimes we're duped; a protege dragged downBy his own fault must e'en be left to drown,That you may help another known and tried,And show yourself his champion if belied;For when 'gainst him detraction forks her tongue,Be sure she'll treat you to the same ere long.No time for sleeping with a fire next door;Neglect such things, they only blaze the more.
A patron's service is a strange career;The tiros love it, but the experts fear.You, while you're sailing on a prosperous tack,Look out for squalls which yet may drive you back.The gay dislike the grave, the staid the pert,The quick the slow, the lazy the alert;Hard drinkers hate the sober, though he swearThose bouts at night are more than he can bear.Unknit your brow; the silent man is sureTo pass for crabbed, the modest for obscure.
Meantime, while thoughts like these your mind engage,Neglect not books nor converse with the sage;Ply them with questions; lead them on to tellWhat things make life go happily and well;How cure desire, the soul's perpetual dearth?How moderate care for things of trifling worth?Is virtue raised by culture or self-sown?What soothes annoy, and makes your heart your own?Is peace procured by honours, pickings, gains,Or, sought in highways, is she found in lanes?
For me, when freshened by my spring's pure coldWhich makes my villagers look pinched and old,What prayers are mine? "O may I yet possessThe goods I have, or, if Heaven pleases, less!Let the few years that Fate may grant me stillBe all my own, not held at others' will!Let me have books, and stores for one year hence,Nor make my life one flutter of suspense!"
But I forbear: sufficient 'tis to prayTo Jove for what he gives and takes away:Grant life, grant fortune, for myself I'll findThat best of blessings, a contented mind.
19Epistle XIX — To Maecenas (Prisco si credis)
If truth there be in old Cratinus' song,No verse, you know, Maecenas, can live longWrit by a water-drinker. Since the dayWhen Bacchus took us poets into payWith fauns and satyrs, the celestial NineHave smelt each morning of last evening's wine.The praises heaped by Homer on the bowlAt once convict him as a thirsty soul:And father Ennius ne'er could be provokedTo sing of battles till his lips were soaked."Let temperate folk write verses in the hallWhere bonds change hands, abstainers not at all;"So ran my edict: now the clan drinks hard,And vinous breath distinguishes a bard.
What if a man appeared with gown cut short,Bare feet, grim visage, after Cato's sort?Would you respect him, hail him from henceforthThe heir of Cato's mind, of Cato's worth?The wretched Moor, who matched himself in witWith keen Timagenes, in sunder split.Faults are soon copied: should my colour fail,Our bards drink cummin, hoping to look pale.Mean, miserable apes! the coil you makeOft gives my heart, and oft my sides, an ache.
Erect and free I walk the virgin sod,Too proud to tread the paths by others trod.The man who trusts himself, and dares step out,Soon sets the fashion to the inferior rout.'Tis I who first to Italy have shownIambics, quarried from the Parian stone;Following Archilochus in rhythm and stave,But not the words that dug Lycambes' grave.Yet think not that I merit scantier bays,Because in form I reproduce his lays:Strong Sappho now and then adopts a toneFrom that same lyre, to qualify her own;So does Alcaeus, though in all beside,Style, order, thought, the difference is wide;'Gainst no false fair he turns his angry Muse,Nor for her guilty father twists the noose.Aye, and Alcaeus' name, before unheard,My Latian harp has made a household word.Well may the bard feel proud, whose pen suppliesUnhackneyed strains to gentle hands and eyes.
Ask you what makes the uncourteous reader laudMy works at home, but run them down abroad?I stoop not, I, to catch the rabble's votesBy cheap refreshments or by cast-off coats,Nor haunt the benches where your pedants swarm,Prepared by turns to listen and perform.That's what this whimpering means. Suppose I say"Your theatres have ne'er been in my way,Nor I in theirs: large audiences requireSome heavier metal than my thin-drawn wire:""You put me off," he answers, "with a sneer:Your works are kept for Jove's imperial ear:Yes, you're a paragon of bards, you think,And no one else brews nectar fit to drink."What can I do? 'tis an unequal match;For if my nose can sniff, his nails can scratch:I say the place won't snit me, and cry shame;"E'en fencers get a break 'twixt game and game."Games oft have ugly issue: they begetUnhealthy competition, fume and fret:And fume and fret engender in their turnBattles that bleed, and enmities that burn.
20Epistle XX — To His Book (Vertumnum janumque)
To street and market-place I see you lookWith wistful longing, my adventurous book,That on the stalls for sale you may be seen,Rubbed by the binder's pumice smooth and clean.You chafe at look and key, and court the viewOf all the world, disdainful of the few.Was this your breeding? go where you would go;When once sent out, you won't come back, you know."What mischief have I done?" I hear you whine,When some one hurts those feelings, now so fine;For hurt you're sure to be; when people pallOf reading you, they'll crush and fold you small.If my prophetic soul be not at faultFrom indignation at your rude revolt,Your doom, methinks, is easy to foretell:While you've your gloss on, Rome will like you well:Then, when you're thumbed and soiled by vulgar hands,You'll feed the moths, or go to distant lands.Ah, then you'll mind your monitor too late,While he looks on and chuckles at your fate,Like him who, pestered by his donkey's vice,Got off and pushed it down the precipice;For who would lose his temper and his breathTo keep a brute alive that's bent on death?Yet one thing more: your fate may be to teachIn some suburban school the parts of speech,And, maundering over grammar day by day,Lisp, prattle, drawl, grow childish, and decay.
Well, when in summer afternoons you seeMen fain to listen, tell them about me:Tell them that, born a freedman's son, possessedOf slender means, I soared beyond my nest,That so whate'er's deducted for my birthMay count as assets on the score of worth;Say that I pleased the greatest of my day:Then draw my picture;--prematurely grey,Of little person, fond of sunny ease,Lightly provoked, but easy to appease.Last, if my age they ask you, let them knowThat I was forty-four not long ago,In the December of last year, the sameThat goes by Lepidus' and Lollius' name.