‘Well, if a man’s no miser, is he sane
That moment?’ No. ‘Why, Stoic?’ I’ll explain.
The stomach here is sound as any bell,
Craterus may say: then is the patient well?
May he get up? Why no; there still are pains
That need attention in the side or reins.
You’re not forsworn nor miserly: go kill
A porker to the gods who ward off ill.
You’re headlong and ambitious: take a trip
To Madman’s Island by the next swift ship.
For where’s the difference, down the rabble’s throat
To pour your gold, or never spend a groat?
Servius Oppidius, so the story runs,
Rich for his time, bequeathed to his two sons
Two good-sized farms, and calling to his bed
The hopeful youths, in faltering accents said:
‘E’er since I saw you, Aulus, give away
Your nuts and taws, or squander them at play,
While you, Tiberius, careful and morose,
Would count them over, hide them, keep them close,
I’ve feared lest both should err in different ways,
And one have Cassius’, one Cicuta’s craze.
So now I beg you by the household powers
Who guard, and still shall guard, this roof of ours,
That you diminish not, nor you augment
What I and nature fix for your content.
To bar ambition too, I lay an oath
Of heaviest weight upon the souls of both;
Should either be an aedile, or, still worse,
A praetor, let him feel a father’s curse.
What? would you wish to lavish my bequest
In vetches, beech-nuts, lupines and the rest,
You, that in public you may strut, or stand
All bronze, when stripped of money, stripped of land;
You, that Agrippa’s plaudits you may win,
A sneaking fox in a brave lion’s skin?’
“What moves you, Agamemnon, thus to fling
Great Ajax to the dogs? ‘I am a king.’
And I a subject: therefore I forbear
More questions. ‘Right; for what I will is fair:
Yet, if there be who fancy me unjust,
I give my conduct up to be discussed.’
Mightiest of mighty kings, may proud success
And safe return your conquering army bless!
May I ask questions then, and shortly speak
When you have answered? ‘Take the leave you seek.’
Then why should Ajax, though so oft renowned
For patriot service, rot above the ground,
Your bravest next Achilles, just that Troy
And envious Priam may the scene enjoy,
Beholding him, through whom their children came
To feed the dogs, himself cast out to shame?
‘A flock the madman slew, and cried that he
Had killed my brother, Ithacus, and me.’
Well, when you offered in a heifer’s stead
Your child, and strewed salt meal upon her head,
Then were you sane, I ask you? ‘Why not sane?’
Why, what did Ajax when the flock was slain?
He did no violence to his wife or child:
He cursed the Atridae, true; his words were wild;
But against Teucer ne’er a hand he raised,
Nor e’en Ulysses: yet you call him crazed.
‘But I, of purpose, soothed the gods with blood,
To gain our fleet free passage o’er the flood.’
Blood! ay, your own, you madman. ‘Nay, not so:
My own, I grant it: but a madman’s, no.’
“He that sees things amiss, his mind distraught
By guilty deeds, a madman will be thought;
And, so the path of reason once be missed,
Who cares if rage or folly gave the twist?
When Ajax falls with fury on the fold,
He shows himself a madman, let us hold:
When you, of purpose, do a crime to gain
A meed of empty glory, are you sane?
The heart that air-blown vanities dilate,
Will medicine say ’tis in its normal state?
Suppose a man in public chose to ride
With a white lambkin nestling at his side,
Called it his daughter, had it richly clothed,
And did his best to get it well betrothed,
The law would call him madman, and the care
Of him and of his goods would pass elsewhere.
You offer up your daughter for a lamb;
And are you rational? Don’t say, I am.
No; when a man’s a fool, he’s then insane:
The man that’s guilty, he’s a maniac plain:
The dupe of bubble glory, war’s grim queen
Has dinned away his senses, clear and clean.
“Cassius and luxury! hunt that game with me;
For spendthrifts are insane, the world shall see.
Soon as the youngster had received at last
The thousand talents that his sire amassed,
He sent round word to all the sharking clan,
Perfumer, fowler, fruiterer, fisherman,
Velabrum’s refuse, Tuscan Alley’s scum,
To come to him. next morning. Well, they come.
First speaks the pimp: ‘Whatever I or these
Possess, is yours: command it when you please.’
Now hear his answer, and admire the mind
That thus could speak, so generous and so kind.
‘You sleep in Umbrian snow-fields, booted o’er
The hips, that I may banquet on a boar;
You scour the sea for fish in winter’s cold,
And I do nought; I don’t deserve this gold:
Here, take it; you a hundred, you as much,
But you, the spokesman, thrice that sum shall
touch.’
“AEsopus’ son took from his lady dear
A splendid pearl that glittered in her ear,
Then melted it in vinegar, and quaffed
(Such was his boast) a thousand at a draught:
How say you? had the act been more insane
To fling it in a river or a drain?
“Arrius’ two sons, twin brothers, of a piece
In vice, perverseness, folly, and caprice,
Would lunch off nightingales: well, what’s their mark?
Shall it be chalk or charcoal, white or dark?
“To ride a stick, to build a paper house,
Play odd and even, harness mouse and mouse,
If a grown man professed to find delight
In things like these, you’d call him mad outright.
“Well now, should reason force you to admit
That love is just as childish, every whit;
To own that whimpering at your mistress’ door
Is e’en as weak as building on the floor;
Say, will you put conviction into act,
And, like young Polemo, at once retract;
Take off the signs and trappings of disease,
Your leg-bands, tippets, furs, and muffatees,
As he slipped off his chaplets, when the word
Of sober wisdom all his being stirred?
“Give a cross child an apple: ‘Take it, pet:’
He sulks and will not: hold it back, he’ll fret.
Just so the shut-out lover, who debates
And parleys near the door he vows he hates,
In doubt, when sent for, to go back or no,
Though, if not sent for, he’d be sure to go.
‘She calls me: ought I to obey her call,
Or end this long infliction once for all?
The door was shut:’tis open: ah, that door!
Go back? I won’t, however she implore.’
So he. Now listen while the slave re
plies,
And say if of the two he’s not more wise:
‘Sir, if a thing is senseless, to bring sense
To bear upon it is a mere pretence;
Now love is such a thing, the more’s the shame;
First war, then peace, ’tis never twice the same,
For ever heaving, like a sea in storm,
And taking every hour some different form.
You think to fix it? why, the job’s as bad
As if you tried by reason to be mad.’
“When you pick apple-pips, and try to hit
The ceiling with them, are you sound of wit?
“When with your withered lips you bill and coo,
Is he that builds card-houses worse than you?
Then, too, the blood that’s spilt by fond desires,
The swords that men will use to poke their fires!
When Marius killed his mistress t’other day
And broke his neck, was he demented, say?
Or would you call him criminal instead,
And stigmatize his heart to save his head,
Following the common fallacy, which founds
A different meaning upon different sounds?
“There was an aged freedman, who would run
From shrine to shrine at rising of the sun,
Sober and purified for prayer, and cry
‘Save me, me only! sure I need not die;
Heaven can do all things:’ ay, the man was sane
In ears and eyes: but how about his brain?
Why, that his master, if not bent to plead
Before a court, could scarce have guaranteed.
Him and all such Chrysippus would assign
To mad Menenius’ most prolific line.
“‘Almighty Jove, who giv’st and tak’st away
The pains we mortals suffer, hear me pray!’
(So cries the mother of a child whose cold,
Or ague rather, now is five months old)
‘Cure my poor boy, and he shall stand all bare
In Tiber, on thy fast, in morning air.’
So if, by chance or treatment, the attack
Should pass away, the wretch will bring it back,
And give the child his death: ’tis madness clear;
But what produced it? superstitious fear.”
Such were the arms Stertinius, next in sense
To the seven sages, gave me for defence.
Now he that calls me mad gets paid in kind,
And told to feel the pigtail stuck behind.
H. Good Stoic, may you mend your loss, and sell
All your enormous bargains twice as well.
But pray, since folly’s various, just explain
What type is mine? for I believe I’m sane.
D. What? is Agave conscious that she’s mad
When she holds up the head of her poor lad?
H. I own I’m foolish — truth must have her will —
Nay, mad: but tell me, what’s my form of ill?
D. I’ll tell you. First, you build, which means you try
To ape great men, yourself some two feet high,
And yet you laugh to see poor Turbo fight,
When he looks big and strains beyond his height.
What? if Maecenas does a thing, must you,
His weaker every way, attempt it too?
A calf set foot on some young frogs, they say,
Once when the mother chanced to be away:
One ‘scapes, and tells his dam with bated breath
How a huge beast had crushed the rest to death:
“How big?” quoth she: “is this as big?” and here
She swelled her body out. “No, nothing near.”
Then, seeing her still fain to puff and puff,
“You’ll burst,” gays he, “before you’re large enough.”
Methinks the story fits you. Now then, throw
Your verses in, like oil to feed the glow.
If ever poet yet was sane, no doubt,
You may put in your plea, but not without.
Your dreadful temper —
H. Hold.
D. The sums you spend
Beyond your income —
H. Mind yourself, my friend.
D. And then, those thousand flames no power can cool.
H. O mighty senior, spare a junior fool!
SATIRE IV.
UNDE ET QUO CATIUS?
HORACE. CATIUS.
HORACE.
Ho, Catius! whence and whither?
C. Not to-day:
I cannot stop to talk: I must away
To set down words of wisdom, which surpass
The Athenian sage and deep Pythagoras.
H. Faith, I did ill at such an awkward time
To cross your path; but you’ll forgive the crime:
If you’ve lost aught, you’ll get it back ere long
By nature or by art; in both you’re strong.
C. Ah, ’twas a task to keep the whole in mind,
For style and matter were alike refined.
H. But who was lecturer? tell me whence he came.
C. I give the precepts, but suppress the name.
The oblong eggs by connoisseurs are placed
Above the round for whiteness and for taste:
Procure them for your table without fail,
For they’re more fleshy, and their yolk is male.
The cabbage of dry fields is sweeter found
Than the weak growth of washed-out garden ground.
Should some chance guest surprise you late at night,
For fear the new-killed fowl prove tough to bite,
Plunge it while living in Falernian lees,
And then ‘twill be as tender as you please.
Mushrooms that grow in meadows are far best;
You can’t be too suspicious of the rest.
He that would pass through summer without hurt
Should eat a plate of mulberries for dessert,
But mind to pluck them in the morning hour,
Before the mid-day sun exerts its power.
Aufidius used Falernian, rich and strong,
To mingle with his honey: he did wrong:
For when the veins are empty, ’tis not well
To pour in fiery drinks to make them swell:
Mild gentle draughts will better do their part
In nourishing the cockles of the heart.
In costive cases, limpets from the shell
Are a cheap way the evil to dispel,
With groundling sorrel: but white Coan neat
You’ll want to make the recipe complete.
For catching shell-fish the new moon’s the time,
But there’s a difference between clime and clime;
Baiae is good, but to the Lucrine yields;
Circeii ranks as best for oyster-fields;
Misenum’s cape with urchins is supplied;
Flat bivalve mussels are Tarentum’s pride.
Let no man fancy he knows how to dine
Till he has learnt how taste and taste combine.
’Tis not enough to sweep your fish away
From the dear stall, and chuckle as you pay,
Not knowing which want sauce, and which when broiled
Will tempt a guest whose appetite is spoiled.
The man who hates wild boars that eat like tame
Gets his from Umbria, genuine mast-fed game:
For the Laurentian beast, that makes its fat
Off sedge and reeds, is flavourless and flat.
The flesh of roes that feed upon the vine
Is not to be relied on when you dine.
With those who know what parts of hare are best
You’ll find the wings are mostly in request.
Fishes and fowls, their nature and their age,
Have oft employed the attention of the sage;
But how to solve the problem ne’er was known
B
y mortal palate previous to my own.
There are whose whole invention is confined
To novel sweets: that shows a narrow mind;
As if you wished your wines to be first-rate,
But cared not with what oil your fish you ate.
Put Massic wine to stand ‘neath a clear sky
All night, away the heady fumes will fly,
Purged by cool air: if ’tis through linen strained,
You spoil the flavour, and there’s nothing gained.
Who mix Surrentine with Falernian dregs
Clear off the sediment with pigeons’ eggs:
The yolk goes down; all foreign matters sink
Therewith, and leave the beverage fit to drink.
’Tis best with roasted shrimps and Afric snails
To rouse your drinker when his vigour fails:
Not lettuce; lettuce after wine ne’er lies
Still in the stomach, but is sure to rise:
The appetite, disordered and distressed,
Wants ham and sausage to restore its zest;
Nay, craves for peppered viands and what not,
Fetched from some greasy cookshop steaming hot.
There are two kinds of sauce; and I may say
That each is worth attention in its way.
Sweet oil’s the staple of the first; but wine
Should be thrown in, and strong Byzantine brine.
Now take this compound, pickle, wine, and oil,
Mix it with herbs chopped small, then make it boil,
Put saffron in, and add, when cool, the juice
Venafrum’s choicest olive-yards produce.
In taste Tiburtian apples count as worse
Than Picene; in appearance, the reverse.
For pots, Venucule grapes the best may suit:
For drying, Albans are your safer fruit.
’Twas I who first, authorities declare,
Served grapes with apples, lees with caviare,
White pepper with black salt, and had them set
Before each diner as his private whet.
’Tis gross to squander hundreds upon fish,
Yet pen them cooked within too small a dish.
So too it turns the stomach, if there sticks
Dirt to the bowl wherein your wine you mix;
Or if the servant, who behind you stands,
Complete Works of Horace (Illustrated) (Delphi Ancient Classics) Page 14