I've listened long, and fain a word would say,But, as a slave, I dare not.
H. Davus, eh?
D. Yes, Davus, true and faithful, good enough,But not too good to be of lasting stuff.
H. Well, take December's licence: I'll not balkOur fathers' good intentions: have your talk.
D. Some men there are take pleasure in what's illPersistently, and do it with a will:The greater part keep wavering to and fro,And now all right, and now all wrong they go.Prisons, we all remember, oft would wearThree rings at once, then show his finger bare;First he'd be senator, then knight, and thenIn an hour's time a senator again;Flit from a palace to a crib so mean,A decent freedman scarce would there be seen;Now with Athenian wits he'd make his home,Now live with scamps and profligates at Rome;Born in a luckless hour, when every faceVertumnus wears was pulling a grimace.Shark Volanerius tried to disappointThe gout that left his fingers ne'er a jointBy hiring some one at so much per dayTo shake the dicebox while he sat at play;Consistent in his faults, so less a gooseThan your poor wretch who shifts from fast to loose.
H. For whom d'ye mean this twaddle, tell me now,You hang-dog?
D. Why, for you.
H. Good varlet, how?
D. You praise the life that people lived of old,When Rome was frugal and the age was gold,And yet, if on a sudden forced to dwellWith men like those, you'd strenuously rebel,Either because you don't believe at heartThat what you bawl for is the happier part,Or that you can't act out what you avow,But stand with one foot sticking in the slough.At Rome you hanker for your country home;Once in the country, there's no place like Rome.If not asked out to supper, then you blessThe stars that let you eat your quiet mess,Vow that engagements are mere clogs, and thinkYou're happy that you've no one's wine to drink.But should Maecenas, somewhat late, inviteHis favourite bard to come by candle-light,"Bring me the oil this instant! is there noneHears me?" you scream, and in a trice are gone:While Milvius and his brother beasts of prey,With curses best not quoted, walk away.Yet what says Milvius? "Honest truth to tell,I turn my nose up at a kitchen's smell;I'm guided by my stomach; call me weak,Coward, tavern-spunger, still by book you'll speak.But who are you to treat me to your raps?You're just as bad as I, nay worse perhaps,Though you've a cloak of decent words, forsooth,To throw at pleasure o'er the ugly truth."What if at last a greater fool you're foundThan I, the slave you bought for twenty pound?Nay, nay, don't scare me with that threatening eye:Unclench your fist and lay your anger by,While I retail the lessons which of lateThe porter taught me at Crispinus' gate.
You're no adulterer:—nor a thief am I,When I see plate and wisely pass it by:But take away the danger, in a triceNature unbridled plunges into vice.What? you to be my master, who obeyMore persons, nay, more things than words can say,Whom not the praetor's wand, though four times waved,Could make less tyrant-ridden, less enslaved?Press home the matter further: how d'ye callThe thrall who's servant to another thrall?An understrapper, say; the name will do;Or fellow-servant: such am I to you:For you, whose work I do, do others' work,And move as dolls move when their wires we jerk.
Who then is free? The sage, who keeps in checkHis baser self, who lives at his own beck,Whom neither poverty nor dungeon drearNor death itself can ever put in fear,Who can reject life's goods, resist desire,Strong, firmly braced, and in himself entire,A hard smooth ball that gives you ne'er a grip,'Gainst whom when Fortune runs, she's sure to trip.Such are the marks of freedom: look them through,And tell me, is there one belongs to you?Your mistress begs for money, plagues you sore,Ducks you with water, drives you from her door,Then calls you back: break the vile bondage; cry"I'm free, I'm free."—Alas, you cannot. Why?There's one within you, armed with spur and stick,Who turns and drives you, howsoe'er you kick.
On one of Pausias' masterworks you pore,As you were crazy: what does Davus more,Standing agape and straining knees and eyesAt some rude sketch of fencers for a prize,Where, drawn in charcoal or red ochre, justAs if alive, they parry and they thrust?Davus gets called a loiterer and a scamp,You (save the mark!) a critic of high stamp.If hot sweet-cakes should tempt me, I am naught:Do you say no to dainties as you ought?Am I worse trounced than you when I obeyMy stomach? true, my back is made to pay:But when you let rich tit-bits pass your lipThat cost no trifle, do you 'scape the whip?Indulging to excess, you loathe your meat,And the bloat trunk betrays the gouty feet.
The lad's a rogue who goes by night to chopA stolen flesh-brush at a fruiterer's shop:The man who sells a farm to buy good fare,Is there no slavery to the stomach there?
Then too you cannot spend an hour alone;No company's more hateful than your own;You dodge and give yourself the slip; you seekIn bed or in your cups from care to sneak:In vain: the black dog follows you, and hangsClose on your flying skirts with hungry fangs.
H. Where's there a stone?
D. Who wants it?
H. Or a pike?
D. Mere raving this, or verse-making belike.
H. Unless you're off at once, you'll join the eightWho do their digging down at my estate.
That rich Nasidienus—let me hearHow yesterday you relished his good cheer:For when I tried to get you, I was toldYou'd been there since the day was six hours old.
F. O, 'twas the finest treat.
H. Inform me, pray,What first was served your hunger to allay.
F. First a Lucanian boar; 'twas captured wild(So the host told us) when the wind was mild;Around it, turnips, lettuce, radishes,By way of whet, with brine and Coan lees.Then, when the board, a maple one, was cleared,A high-girt slave with purple cloth appearedAnd rubbed and wiped it clean: another boyRemoved the scraps, and all that might annoy:"While dark Hydaspes, like an Attic maidWho carries Ceres' basket, grave and staid,Came in with Caecuban, and, close behind,Alcon with Chian, which had ne'er been brined.Then said our host: "If Alban you'd prefer,Maecenas, or Falern, we have them, Sir."
H. What sorry riches! but I fail to gleanWho else was present at so rare a scene.
F. Myself at top, then Viscus, and belowWas Varius: after us came Balatro,Vibidius also, present at the treatUnasked, as members of Maecenas' suite.Porcius and Nomentanus last, and he,Our host, who lay betwixt them, made the three:Porcius the undermost, a witty droll,Who makes you laugh by swallowing cheesecakes whole:While Nomentanus' specialty was this,To point things out that vulgar eyes might miss;For fish and fowl, in fact whate'er was placedBefore us, had, we found, a novel taste,As one experiment sufficed to show,Made on a flounder and a turbot's roe.Then, turning the discourse to fruit, he treatsOf the right time for gathering honey-sweets;Plucked when the moon's on wane, it seems they're red;For further details see the fountain-head.When thus to Balatro Vibidius: "Fie!Let's drink him out, or unrevenged we die;Here, bigger cups." Our entertainer's cheekTurned deadly white, as thus he heard him speak;For of the nuisances that can befallA man like him, your toper's worst of all,Because, you know, hot wines do double wrong;They dull the palate, and they edge the tongue.On go Vibidius and his mate, and tiltWhole flagons into cups Allifae-built:We follow suit: the host's two friends aloneForbore to treat the wine-flask as their own.
A lamprey now appears, a sprawling fish,With shrimps about it swimming in the dish.Whereon our host remarks: "This fish was caughtWhile pregnant: after spawning it is naught.We make our sauce with oil, of the best strainVenafrum yields, and caviare from Spain,Pour in Italian wine, five years in tun,While yet 'tis boiling; when the boiling's done,Chian suits best of all; white pepper add,And vinegar, from Lesbian wine turned bad.Rockets and elecampanes with this messTo boil, is my invention, I profess:To put sea-urchins in, unwashed as caught,'Stead of made pickle, was Curtillus' thought."
Meantime the curtains o'er the table spreadCame tumbling in a heap from overhead,Dragging withal black dust in whirlwinds, moreThan Boreas raises on Campania's floor:We, when the shock is over, smile to seeThe danger less than we had feared 'twould be,And breathe again. Poor Rufus drooped his headAnd wept so sore, you'd think his son was dead:And things seemed hastening to a tragic end,But Nomentanus thus consoled his friend:"O Fortune, cruellest of heavenly powers,Why make such game of this poor life of ours?"Varius his napkin to his mouth applied,A laugh to stifle, or at least to hide:But Balatro, with his perpetual sneer,Cries, "Such is life, capricious and severe,And hence it comes that merit never gainsA meed of praise proportioned to its pains.What gross injustice! just that I may getA handsome dinner, you must fume and fret,See that the bread's not burned, the sauce not spoiled,The servants in their places, curled and oiled.Then too the risks; the tapestry, as of late,May fall; a stumbling groom may break a plate.But gifts, concealed by sunshine, are displayedIn hosts, as in commanders, by the shade."Rufus returned, "Heaven speed things to your mind!Sure ne'er was guest so friendly and so kind;"Then takes his slippers. Head to head draws near,And each man's lips are at his neighbour's ear.
H. 'Tis better than a play: but please reportWhat further things occurred to make you sport.
F. Well, while Vibidius takes the slaves to task,Enquiring if the tumble broke the flask,And Balatro keeps starting some pretenceFor mirth, that we may laugh without offence,With altered brow returns our sumptuous friend,Resolved, what chance has damaged, art shall mend.More servants follow, staggering 'neath the loadOf a huge dish where limbs of crane were stowed,Salted and floured; a goose's liver, crammedTo twice its bulk, so close the figs were jammed;And wings of hares dressed separate, better soThan eaten with the back, as gourmands know.Then blackbirds with their breasts all burnt to coal,And pigeons without rumps, not served up whole,Dainties, no doubt, but then there came a speechAbout the laws and properties of each;At last the feeder and the food we quit,Taking revenge by tasting ne'er a bit,As if Canidia's mouth had breathed an airOf viperous poison on the whole affair.
I. To Maecenas.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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."
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.
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.
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.
XII. TO Iccitus.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.