Complete Works of Horace (Illustrated) (Delphi Ancient Classics)

by Horace Quintus Horatius Flaccus

  Death in an instant comes, or victory’s won.”

  The lawyer lauds the farmer, when a knock

  Disturbs his sleep at crowing of the cock:

  The farmer, dragged to town on business, swears

  That only citizens are free from cares.

  I need not run through all: so long the list,

  Fabius himself would weary and desist:

  So take in brief my meaning: just suppose

  Some God should come, and with their wishes close:

  “See, here am I, come down of my mere grace

  To right you: soldier, take the merchant’s place!

  You, counsellor, the farmer’s! go your way,

  One here, one there! None stirring? all say nay?

  How now? you won’t be happy when you may.”

  Now, after this, would Jove be aught to blame

  If with both cheeks he burst into a flame,

  And vowed, when next they pray, they shall not find

  His temper easy, or his ear inclined?

  Well, not to treat things lightly (though, for me,

  Why truth may not be gay, I cannot see:

  Just as, we know, judicious teachers coax

  With sugar-plum or cake their little folks

  To learn their alphabet): — still, we will try

  A graver tone, and lay our joking by.

  The man that with his plough subdues the land,

  The soldier stout, the vintner sly and bland,

  The venturous sons of ocean, all declare

  That with one view the toils of life they bear,

  When age has come, and labour has amassed

  Enough to live on, to retire at last:

  E’en so the ant (for no bad pattern she),

  That tiny type of giant industry,

  Drags grain by grain, and adds it to the sum

  Of her full heap, foreseeing cold to come:

  Yet she, when winter turns the year to chill,

  Stirs not an inch beyond her mounded hill,

  But lives upon her savings: you, more bold,

  Ne’er quit your gain for fiercest heat or cold:

  Fire, ocean, sword, defying all, you strive

  To make yourself the richest man alive.

  Yet where’s the profit, if you hide by stealth

  In pit or cavern your enormous wealth?

  “Why, once break in upon it, friend, you know,

  And, dwindling piece by piece, the whole will go.”

  But, if ’tis still unbroken, what delight

  Can all that treasure give to mortal wight?

  Say, you’ve a million quarters on your floor:

  Your stomach is like mine: it holds no more:

  Just as the slave who ‘neath the bread-bag sweats

  No larger ration than his fellows gets.

  What matters it to reasonable men

  Whether they plough a hundred fields or ten?

  “But there’s a pleasure, spite of all you say,

  In a large heap from which to take away.”

  If both contain the modicum we lack,

  Why should your barn be better than my sack?

  You want a draught of water: a mere urn,

  Perchance a goblet, well would serve your turn:

  You say, “The stream looks scanty at its head;

  I’ll take my quantum where ’tis broad instead.”

  But what befalls the wight who yearns for more

  Than Nature bids him? down the waters pour,

  And whelm him, bank and all; while he whose greed

  Is kept in check, proportioned to his need,

  He neither draws his water mixed with mud,

  Nor leaves his life behind him in the flood.

  But there’s a class of persons, led astray

  By false desires, and this is what they say:

  “You cannot have enough: what you possess,

  That makes your value, be it more or less.”

  What answer would you make to such as these?

  Why, let them hug their misery if they please,

  Like the Athenian miser, who was wont

  To meet men’s curses with a hero’s front:

  “Folks hiss me,” said he, “but myself I clap

  When I tell o’er my treasures on my lap.”

  So Tantalus catches at the waves that fly

  His thirsty palate — Laughing, are you? why?

  Change but the name, of you the tale is told:

  You sleep, mouth open, on your hoarded gold;

  Gold that you treat as sacred, dare not use,

  In fact, that charms you as a picture does.

  Come, will you hear what wealth can fairly do?

  ‘Twill buy you bread, and vegetables too,

  And wine, a good pint measure: add to this

  Such needful things as flesh and blood would miss.

  But to go mad with watching, nights and days

  To stand in dread of thieves, fires, runaways

  Who filch and fly, — in these if wealth consist,

  Let me rank lowest on the paupers’ list.

  “But if you suffer from a chill attack,

  Or other chance should lay you on your back,

  You then have one who’ll sit by your bed-side,

  Will see the needful remedies applied,

  And call in a physician, to restore

  Your health, and give you to your friends once more.”

  Nor wife nor son desires your welfare: all

  Detest you, neighbours, gossips, great and small.

  What marvel if, when wealth’s your one concern,

  None offers you the love you never earn?

  Nay, would you win the kinsmen Nature sends

  Made ready to your hand, and keep them friends,

  ‘Twere but lost labour, as if one should train

  A donkey for the course by bit and rein.

  Make then an end of getting: know, the more

  Your wealth, the less the risk of being poor;

  And, having gained the object of your quest,

  Begin to slack your efforts and take rest;

  Nor act like one Ummidius (never fear,

  The tale is short, and ’tis the last you’ll hear),

  So rich, his gold he by the peck would tell,

  So mean, the slave that served him dressed as well;

  E’en to his dying day he went in dread

  Of perishing for simple want of bread,

  Till a brave damsel, of Tyndarid line

  The true descendant, clove him down the chine.

  “What? would you have me live like some we know,

  Maenius or Nomentanus?” There you go!

  Still in extremes! in bidding you forsake

  A miser’s ways, I say not, Be a rake.

  ‘Twixt Tanais and Visellius’ sire-in-law

  A step there is, and broader than a straw.

  Yes, there’s a mean in morals: life has lines,

  To north or south of which all virtue pines.

  Now to resume our subject: why, I say,

  Should each man act the miser in his way,

  Still discontented with his natural lot,

  Still praising those who have what he has not?

  Why should he waste with very spite, to see

  His neighbour has a milkier cow than he,

  Ne’er think how much he’s richer than the mass,

  But always strive this man or that to pass?

  In such a contest, speed we as we may,

  There’s some one wealthier ever in the way.

  So from their base when vying chariots pour,

  Each driver presses on the car before,

  Wastes not a thought on rivals overpast,

  But leaves them to lag on among the last.

  Hence comes it that the man is rarely seen

  Who owns that his a happy life has been,

  And, thankful for past blessings, with good will
/>   Retires, like one who has enjoyed his fill.

  Enough: you’ll think I’ve rifled the scrutore

  Of blind Crispinus, if I prose on more.

  SATIRE III.

  OMNIBUS HOC VITIUM.

  All singers have a fault: if asked to use

  Their talent among friends, they never choose;

  Unask’d, they ne’er leave off. Just such a one

  Tigellius was, Sardinia’s famous son.

  Caesar, who could have forced him to obey,

  By his sire’s friendship and his own might pray,

  Yet not draw forth a note: then, if the whim

  Took him, he’d troll a Bacchanalian hymn,

  From top to bottom of the tetrachord,

  Till the last course was set upon the board.

  One mass of inconsistence, oft he’d fly

  As if the foe were following in full cry,

  While oft he’d stalk with a majestic gait,

  Like Juno’s priest in ceremonial-state.

  Now, he would keep two hundred serving-men,

  And now, a bare establishment of ten.

  Of kings and tetrarchs with an equal’s air

  He’d talk: next day he’d breathe the hermit’s prayer:

  “A table with three legs, a shell to hold

  My salt, and clothes, though coarse, to keep out cold.”

  Yet give this man, so frugal, so content,

  A thousand, in a week ’twould all be spent.

  All night he would sit up, all day would snore:

  So strange a jumble ne’er was seen before.

  “Hold!” some one cries, “have you no failings?” Yes;

  Failings enough, but different, maybe less.

  One day when Maenius happened to attack

  Novius the usurer behind his back,

  “Do you not know yourself?” said one, “or think

  That if you play the stranger, we shall wink?”

  “Not know myself!” he answered, “you say true:

  I do not: so I take a stranger’s due.”

  Self-love like this is knavish and absurd,

  And well deserves a damnatory word.

  You glance at your own faults; your eyes are blear:

  You eye your neighbour’s; straightway you see clear,

  Like hawk or basilisk: your neighbours pry

  Into your frailties with as keen an eye.

  A man is passionate, perhaps misplaced

  In social circles of fastidious taste;

  His ill-trimmed beard, his dress of uncouth style,

  His shoes ill-fitting, may provoke a smile:

  But he’s the soul of virtue; but he’s kind;

  But that coarse body hides a mighty mind.

  Now, having scanned his breast, inspect your own,

  And see if there no failings have been sown

  By Nature or by habit, as the fern

  Springs in neglected fields, for men to burn.

  True love, we know, is blind: defects that blight

  The loved one’s charms escape the lover’s sight,

  Nay, pass for beauties, as Balbinus glows

  With admiration of his Hagna’s nose.

  Ah, if in friendship we e’en did the same,

  And virtue cloaked the error with her name!

  Come, let us learn how friends at friends should look

  By a leaf taken from a father’s book.

  Has the dear child a squint? at home he’s classed

  With Venus’ self; “her eyes have just that cast:”

  Is he a dwarf like Sisyphus? his sire

  Calls him “sweet pet,” and would not have him higher,

  Gives Varus’ name to knock-kneed boys, and dubs

  His club-foot youngster Scaurus, king of clubs.

  E’en so let us our neighbours’ frailties scan:

  A friend is close; call him a careful man:

  Another’s vain and fond of boasting; say,

  He talks in an engaging, friendly way:

  A third is a barbarian, rude and free;

  Straightforward and courageous let him be:

  A fourth is apt to break into a flame;

  An ardent spirit — make we that his name.

  This is the sovereign recipe, be sure,

  To win men’s hearts, and having won, secure.

  But WE put virtue down to vice’s score,

  And foul the vessel that was clean before:

  See, here’s a modest man, who ranks too low

  In his own judgment; him we nickname slow:

  Another, ever on his guard, takes care

  No enemy shall catch him unaware,

  (Small wonder, truly, in a world like this,

  Beset with dogs that growl and snakes that hiss);

  We turn his merit to a fault, and style

  His prudence mere disguise, his caution guile.

  Or take some honest soul, who, full of glee,

  Breaks on a patron’s solitude, like me,

  Finds his Maecenas book in hand or dumb,

  And pokes him with remarks, the first that come;

  We cry “He lacks e’en common tact.” Alas!

  What hasty laws against ourselves we pass!

  For none is born without his faults: the best

  But bears a lighter wallet than the rest.

  A man of genial nature, as is fair,

  My virtues with my vices will compare,

  And, as with good or bad he fills the scale,

  Lean to the better side, should that prevail:

  So, when he seeks my friendship, I will trim

  The wavering balance in my turn for him.

  He that has fears his blotches may offend

  Speaks gently of the pimples of his friend:

  For reciprocity exacts her dues,

  And they that need excuse must needs excuse.

  Now, since resentment, spite of all we do,

  Will haunt us fools, and other vices too,

  Why should not reason use her own just sense,

  And square her punishments to each offence?

  Suppose a slave, as he removes the dish,

  Licks the warm gravy or remains of fish,

  Should his vexed master gibbet the poor lad,

  He’d be a second Labeo, STARING mad.

  Now take another instance, and remark

  A case of madness, grosser and more stark.

  A friend has crossed you:— ’tis a slight affair;

  Not to forgive it writes you down a bear: —

  You hate the man and his acquaintance fly,

  As Ruso’s debtors hide from Ruso’s eye;

  Poor victims, doomed, when that black pay-day’s come,

  Unless by hook or crook they raise the sum,

  To stretch their necks, like captives to the knife,

  And listen to dull histories for dear life.

  Say, he has drunk too much, or smashed some ware,

  Evander’s once, inestimably rare,

  Or stretched before me, in his zeal to dine,

  To snatch a chicken I had meant for mine;

  What then? is that a reason he should seem

  Less pleasant, less deserving my esteem?

  How could I treat him worse, were he to thieve,

  Betray a secret, or a trust deceive?

  Your men of words, who rate all crimes alike,

  Collapse and founder, when on fact they strike:

  Sense, custom, all, cry out against the thing,

  And high expedience, right’s perennial spring.

  When men first crept from out earth’s womb, like worms,

  Dumb speechless creatures, with scarce human forms,

  With nails or doubled fists they used to fight

  For acorns or for sleeping-holes at night;

  Clubs followed next; at last to arms they came,

  Which growing practice taught them how to frame,

  Till words and names were found, wherewi
th to mould

  The sounds they uttered, and their thoughts unfold;

  Thenceforth they left off fighting, and began

  To build them cities, guarding man from man,

  And set up laws as barriers against strife

  That threatened person, property, or wife.

  ’Twas fear of wrong gave birth to right, you’ll find,

  If you but search the records of mankind.

  Nature knows good and evil, joy and grief,

  But just and unjust are beyond her brief:

  Nor can philosophy, though finely spun,

  By stress of logic prove the two things one,

  To strip your neighbour’s garden of a flower

  And rob a shrine at midnight’s solemn hour.

  A rule is needed, to apportion pain,

  Nor let you scourge when you should only cane.

  For that you’re likely to be overmild,

  And treat a ruffian like a naughty child,

  Of this there seems small danger, when you say

  That theft’s as bad as robbery in its way,

  And vow all villains, great and small, shall swing

  From the same tree, if men will make you king.

  But tell me, Stoic, if the wise, you teach,

  Is king, Adonis, cobbler, all and each,

  Why wish for what you’ve got? “Tou fail to see

  What great Chrysippus means by that,” says he.

  “What though the wise ne’er shoe nor slipper made,

  The wise is still a brother of the trade.

  Just as Hennogenes, when silent, still

  Remains a singer of consummate skill,

  As sly Alfenius, when he had let drop

  His implements of art and shut up shop,

  Was still a barber, so the wise is best

  In every craft, a king’s among the rest.”

  Hail to your majesty! yet, ne’ertheless,

  Rude boys are pulling at your beard, I guess;

  And now, unless your cudgel keeps them off,

  The mob begins to hustle, push, and scoff;

  You, all forlorn, attempt to stand at bay,

  And roar till your imperial lungs give way.

  Well, so we part: each takes his separate path:

  You make your progress to your farthing bath,

  A king, with ne’er a follower in your train,

  Except Crispinus, that distempered brain;

  While I find pleasant friends to screen me, when

  I chance to err, like other foolish men;

  Bearing and borne with, so the change we ring,

  More blest as private folks than you as king.