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

by Horace Quintus Horatius Flaccus

From his big horn he sprinkles drop by drop

  Oil on the cabbages himself: — you’d stop

  Your nose to smell it: — vinegar, I own,

  He gives you without stint, and that alone.

  Well, betwixt these, what should a wise man do?

  Which should he copy, think you, of the two?

  ’Tis Scylla and Charybdis, rock and gulf:

  On this side howls the dog, on that the wolf.

  A man that’s neat in table, as in dress,

  Errs not by meanness, yet avoids excess;

  Nor, like Albucius, when he plays the host,

  Storms at his slaves, while giving each his post;

  Nor, like poor Naevius, carelessly offends

  By serving greasy water to his friends.

  Now listen for a space, while I declare

  The good results that spring from frugal fare.

  IMPRIMIS, health: for ’tis not hard to see

  How various meats are like to disagree,

  If you remember with how light a weight

  Your last plain meal upon your stomach sate:

  Now, when you’ve taken toll of every dish,

  Have mingled roast with boiled and fowl with fish,

  The mass of dainties, turbulent and crude,

  Engenders bile, and stirs intestine feud.

  Observe your guests, how ghastly pale their looks

  When they’ve discussed some mystery of your cook’s:

  Ay, and the body, clogged with the excess

  Of yesterday, drags down the mind no less,

  And fastens to the ground in living death

  That fiery particle of heaven’s own breath.

  Another takes brief supper, seeks repair

  From kindly sleep, then rises light as air:

  Not that sometimes he will not cross the line,

  And, just for once, luxuriously dine,

  When feasts come round with the revolving year,

  Or his shrunk frame suggests more generous cheer:

  Then too, when age draws on and life is slack,

  He has reserves on which he can fall back:

  But what have you in store when strength shall fail,

  You, who forestall your goods when young and hale?

  A rancid boar our fathers used to praise:

  What? had they then no noses in those days?

  No: but they wished their friends to have the treat

  When tainted rather than themselves when sweet.

  O had I lived in that brave time of old,

  When men were heroes, and the age was gold!

  Come now, you set some store by good repute:

  In truth, its voice is softer than a lute:

  Then know, great fishes on great dishes still

  Produce great scandal, let alone the bill.

  Think too of angry uncles, friends grown rude,

  Nay, your own self with your own self at feud

  And longing for a rope to end your pain:

  But ropes cost twopence; so you long in vain.

  “O, talk,” you say, “to Trausius: though severe,

  Such truths as these are just what HE should hear:

  But I have untold property, that brings

  A yearly sum, sufficient for three kings.”

  Untold indeed! then can you not expend

  Your superflux on some diviner end?

  Why does one good man want while you abound?

  Why are Jove’s temples tumbling to the ground?

  O selfish! what? devote no modicum

  To your dear country from so vast a sum?

  Ay, you’re the man: the world will go your way….

  O how your foes will laugh at you one day!

  Take measure of the future: which will feel

  More confidence in self, come woe, come weal,

  He that, like you, by long indulgence plants

  In body and in mind a thousand wants,

  Or he who, wise and frugal, lays in stores

  In view of war ere war is at the doors?

  But, should you doubt what good Ofellus says,

  When young I knew him, in his wealthier days:

  Then, when his means were fair, he spent and spared

  Nor more nor less than now, when they’re impaired.

  Still, in the field once his, but now assigned

  To an intruding veteran, you may find,

  His sons and beasts about him, the good sire,

  A sturdy farmer, working on for hire.

  “I ne’er exceeded” — so you’ll hear him say —

  “Herbs and smoked gammon on a working day;

  But if at last a friend I entertained,

  Or there dropped in some neighbour while it rained,

  I got no fish from town to grace my board,

  But dined off kid and chicken like a lord:

  Raisins and nuts the second course supplied,

  With a split fig, first doubled and then dried:

  Then each against the other, with a fine

  To do the chairman’s work, we drank our wine,

  And draughts to Ceres, so she’d top the ground

  With good tall ears, our frets and worries drowned

  Let Fortune brew fresh tempests, if she please,

  How much can she knock off from joys like these!

  Have you or I, young fellows, looked more lean

  Since this new holder came upon the scene?

  Holder, I say, for tenancy’s the most

  That he, or I, or any man can boast:

  Now he has driven us out: but him no less

  His own extravagance may dispossess

  Or slippery lawsuit: in the last resort

  A livelier heir will cut his tenure short.

  Ofellus’ name it bore, the field we plough,

  A few years back: it bears Umbrenus’ now:

  None has it as a fixture, fast and firm,

  But he or I may hold it for a term.

  Then live like men of courage, and oppose

  Stout hearts to this and each ill wind that blows.”

  SATIRE III.

  SIC RARO SCRIBIS.

  DAMASIPPUS. HORACE.

  DAMASIPPUS.

  So seldom do you write, we scarcely hear

  Your tablets called for four times in the year:

  And even then, as fast as you compose,

  You quarrel with the thing, and out it goes,

  Vexed that, in spite of bottle and of bed,

  You turn out nothing worthy to be read.

  How is it all to end? Here you’ve come down,

  Avoiding a December spent in town:

  Your brains are clear: begin, and charm our ears

  With something worth your boasting. — Nought appears.

  You blame your pens, and the poor wall, accurst

  From birth by gods and poets, comes off worst.

  Yet you looked bold, and talked of what you’d do,

  Could you lie snug for one free day or two.

  What boot Menander, Plato, and the rest

  You carried down from town to stock your nest?

  Think you by turning lazy to exempt

  Your life from envy? No, you’ll earn contempt.

  Then stop your ears to sloth’s enchanting voice,

  Or give up your best hopes: there lies your choice.

  H. Good Damasippus, may the immortals grant,

  For your sage counsel, the one thing you want,

  A barber! but pray tell me how yon came

  To know so well what scarce is known to fame?

  D. Why, ever since my hapless all went down

  ‘Neath the mid arch, I go about the town,

  And make my neighbours’ matters my sole care,

  Seeing my own are damaged past repair.

  Once I was anxious on a bronze to light

  Where Sisyphus had washed his feet at night;

  Each work of art I criticized and classed,

 
; Called this ill chiselled, that too roughly cast;

  Prized that at fifty thousand: then I knew

  To buy at profit grounds and houses too,

  With a sure instinct: till the whole town o’er

  “The pet of Mercury” was the name I bore.

  H. I know your case, and am surprised to see

  So clear a cure of such a malady.

  D, Ay, but my old complaint (though strange, ’tis true)

  Was banished from my system by a new:

  Just as diseases of the side or head

  My to the stomach or the chest instead,

  Like your lethargic patient, when he tears

  Himself from bed, and at the doctor squares.

  H. Spare me but that, I’ll trust you.

  D. Don’t be blind;

  You’re mad yourself, and so are all mankind,

  If truth is in Stertinius, from whose speech

  I learned the precious lessons that I teach,

  What time he bade me grow a wise man’s beard,

  And sent me from the bridge, consoled and cheered.

  For once, when, bankrupt and forlorn, I stood

  With muffled head, just plunging in the flood,

  “Don’t do yourself a mischief,” so he cried

  In friendly tones, appearing at my side:

  “’Tis all false shame: you fear to be thought mad,

  Not knowing that the world are just as bad.

  What constitutes a madman? if ’tis shown

  The marks are found in you and you alone,

  Trust me, I’ll add no word to thwart your plan,

  But leave you free to perish like a man.

  The wight who drives through life with bandaged eyes,

  Ignorant of truth and credulous of lies,

  He in the judgment of Chrysippus’ school

  And the whole porch is tabled as a fool.

  Monarchs and people, every rank and age,

  That sweeping clause includes, — except the sage.

  “Now listen while I show you, how the rest

  Who call you madman, are themselves possessed.

  Just as in woods, when travellers step aside

  From the true path for want of some good guide,

  This to the right, that to the left hand strays,

  And all are wrong, but wrong in different ways,

  So, though you’re mad, yet he who banters you

  Is not more wise, but wears his pigtail too.

  One class of fools sees reason for alarm

  In trivial matters, innocent of harm:

  Stroll in the open plain, you’ll hear them talk

  Of fires, rocks, torrents, that obstruct their walk:

  Another, unlike these, but not more sane,

  Takes fires and torrents for the open plain:

  Let mother, sister, father, wife combined

  Cry ‘There’s a pitfall! there’s a rock! pray mind!’

  They’ll hear no more than drunken Fufius, he

  Who slept the part of queen Ilione,

  While Catienus, shouting in his ear,

  Roared like a Stentor, ‘Hearken, mother dear!’

  “Well, now, I’ll prove the mass of humankind

  Have judgments just as jaundiced, just as blind.

  That Damasippus shows himself insane

  By buying ancient statues, all think plain:

  But he that lends him money, is he free

  From the same charge? ‘O, surely.’ Let us see.

  I bid you take a sum you won’t return:

  You take it: is this madness, I would learn?

  Were it not greater madness to renounce

  The prey that Mercury puts within your pounce?

  Secure him with ten bonds; a hundred; nay,

  Clap on a thousand; still he’ll slip away,

  This Protean scoundrel: drag him into court,

  You’ll only find yourself the more his sport:

  He’ll laugh till scarce you’d think his jaws his own,

  And turn to boar or bird, to tree or stone.

  If prudence in affairs denotes men sane

  And bungling argues a disordered brain,

  The man who lends the cash is far more fond

  Than you, who at his bidding sign the bond.

  “Now give attention and your gowns refold,

  Who thirst for fame, grow yellow after gold,

  Victims to luxury, superstition blind,

  Or other ailment natural to the mind:

  Come close to me and listen, while I teach

  That you’re a pack of madmen, all and each.

  “Of all the hellebore that nature breeds,

  The largest share by far the miser needs:

  In fact, I know not but Anticyra’s juice

  Was all intended for his single use.

  When old Staberius died, his heirs engraved

  Upon his monument the sum he’d saved:

  For, had they failed to do it, they were tied

  A hundred pair of fencers to provide,

  A feast at Arrius’ pleasure, not too cheap,

  And corn, as much as Afric’s farmers reap.

  ‘I may be right, I may be wrong,’ said he,

  ‘Who cares? ’tis not for you to lecture me.’

  Well, one who knew Staberius would suppose

  He was a man that looked beyond his nose:

  Why did he wish, then, that his funeral stone

  Should make the sum he left behind him known?

  Why, while he lived, he dreaded nothing more

  Than that great sin, the sin of being poor,

  And, had he left one farthing less in purse,

  The man, as man, had thought himself the worse:

  For all things human and divine, renown,

  Honour, and worth at money’s shrine bow down:

  And he who has made money, fool or knave,

  Becomes that moment noble, just, and brave.

  A sage, you ask me? yes, a sage, a king,

  Whate’er he chooses; briefly, everything.

  So good Staberius hoped each extra pound

  His virtue saved would to his praise redound.

  Now look at Aristippus, who, in haste

  To make his journey through the Libyan waste,

  Bade the stout slaves who bore his treasure throw

  Their load away, because it made them slow.

  Which was more mad? Excuse me: ‘twill not do

  To shut one question up by opening two.

  “If one buys fiddles, hoards them up when bought,

  Though music’s study ne’er engaged his thought,

  One lasts and awls, unversed in cobbler’s craft,

  One sails for ships, not knowing fore from aft,

  You’d call them mad: but tell me, if you please,

  How that man’s case is different from these,

  Who, as he gets it, stows away his gain,

  And thinks to touch a farthing were profane?

  Yet if a man beside a huge corn-heap

  Lies watching with a cudgel, ne’er asleep,

  And dares not touch one grain, but makes his meat

  Of bitter leaves, as though he found them sweet:

  If, with a thousand wine-casks — call the hoard

  A million rather — in his cellars stored,

  He drinks sharp vinegar: nay, if, when nigh

  A century old, on straw he yet will lie,

  While in his chest rich coverlets, the prey

  Of moth and canker, moulder and decay,

  Few men can see much madness in his whim,

  Because the mass of mortals ail like him.

  “O heaven-abandoned wretch! is all this care

  To save your stores for some degenerate heir,

  A son, or e’en a freedman, who will pour

  All down his throttle, ere a year is o’er?

  You fear to come to want yourself, you say?

  Come, calculate how sm
all the loss per day,

  If henceforth to your cabbage you allow

  And your own head the oil you grudge them now.

  If anything’s sufficient, why forswear,

  Embezzle, swindle, pilfer everywhere?

  Can you be sane? suppose you choose to throw

  Stones at the crowd, as by your door they go,

  Or at the slaves, your chattels, every lad

  And every girl will hoot yon down as mad:

  When with a rope you kill your wife, with bane

  Your aged mother, are you right in brain?

  Why not? Orestes did it with the blade,

  And ’twas in Argos that the scene was laid.

  Think you that madness only then begun

  To seize him, when the impious deed was done,

  And not that Furies spurred him on, before

  The sword grew purple with a parent’s gore?

  Nay, from the time they reckon him insane,

  He did no deed of which you could complain:

  No stroke this madman at Electra aims

  Or Pylades: he only calls them names,

  Fury or other monster, in the style

  Which people use when stirred by tragic bile.

  “Opimius, who, with gold and silver store

  Lodged in his coffers, ne’ertheless was poor

  (The man would drink from earthen nipperkin

  Flat wine on working-days, on feast-days thin),

  Once fell into a lethargy so deep

  That his next heir supposed it more than sleep,

  And entering on possession at his ease,

  Went round the coffers and applied the keys.

  The doctor had a conscience and a head:

  He had a table moved beside the bed,

  Poured out a money-bag, and bade men come

  And ring the coin and reckon o’er the sum:

  Then, lifting up his patient, he began:

  ‘That heir of yours is plundering you, good man.

  ‘What? while I live?’ ‘You wish to live? then take

  The necessary steps: be wide awake.’

  ‘What steps d’ye mean?’ ‘Your strength will soon run short,

  Unless your stomach have some strong support.

  Come, rouse yourself: take this ptisane of rice.’

  ‘The price?’ ‘A trifle.’ ‘I will know the price.’

  ‘Eight-pence.’ ‘O dear! what matters it if I

  Die by disease or robbery? still I die.’

  “‘Who then is sane?’ He that’s no fool, in troth.

  ‘Then what’s a miser?’ Fool and madman both.