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

by Horace Quintus Horatius Flaccus

Has fouled the beaker with his greasy hands.

  Brooms, dish-cloths, saw-dust, what a mite they cost!

  Neglect them though, your reputation’s lost.

  What? sweep with dirty broom a floor inlaid,

  Spread unwashed cloths o’er tapestry and brocade,

  Forgetting, sure, the less such things entail

  Of care and cost, the more the shame to fail,

  Worse than fall short in luxuries, which one sees

  At no man’s table but your rich grandees’?

  H. Catius, I beg, by all that binds a friend,

  Let me go with you, when you next attend;

  For though you’ve every detail at command,

  There’s something must be lost at second hand.

  Then the man’s look, his manner — these may seem

  Mere things of course, perhaps, in your esteem,

  So privileged as you are: for me, I feel

  An inborn thirst, a more than common zeal,

  Up to the distant river-head to mount,

  And quaff these precious waters at their fount.

  SATIRE V.

  HOC QUOQUE, TIRESIA.

  ULYSSES. TIRESIAS.

  ULYSSES

  Now, good Tiresias, add one favour more

  To those your kindness has vouchsafed before,

  And tell me by what ways I may redeem

  My broken fortunes — You’re amused, ’twould seem.

  T. You get safe home, you see your native isle,

  And yet it craves for more, that heart of guile!

  U. O source of truth unerring, you’re aware,

  I reach my home impoverished and stripped bare

  (So you predict), and find nor bit nor sup,

  My flocks all slaughtered and my wines drunk up:

  Yet family and worth, without the staff

  Of wealth to lean on, are the veriest draff.

  T. Since, in plain terms, ’tis poverty you fear,

  And riches are your aim, attend and hear.

  Suppose a thrush or other dainty placed

  At your disposal, for your private taste,

  Speed it to some great house, all gems and gold,

  Where means are ample, and their master old:

  Your choicest apples, ripe and full of juice,

  And whatsoe’er your garden may produce,

  Before they’re offered at the Lares’ shrine,

  Give them to your rich friend, as more divine:

  Be he a branded slave, forsworn, distained

  With brother’s blood, in short, a rogue ingrained,

  Yet walk, if asked, beside him when you meet,

  And (pray mind this) between him and the street.

  U. What, give a slave the wall? in happier days,

  At Troy, for instance, these were not my ways:

  Then with the best I matched myself.

  T. Indeed? I’m sorry: then you’ll always be in need.

  U. Well, well, my heart shall bear it; ’tis inured

  To dire adventure, and has worse endured.

  Go on, most worthy augur, and unfold

  The arts whereby to pile up heaps of gold.

  T. Well, I have told you, and I tell you still:

  Lay steady siege to a rich dotard’s will;

  Nor, should a fish or two gnaw round the bait,

  And ‘scape the hook, lose heart and give up straight.

  A suit at law comes on: suppose you find

  One party’s old and childless, never mind

  Though law with him’s a weapon to oppress

  An upright neighbour, take his part no less:

  But spurn the juster cause and purer life,

  If burdened with a child or teeming wife.

  “Good Quintus,” say, or “Publius” (nought endears

  A speaker more than this to slavish ears),

  “Your worth has raised you up a friend at court;

  I know the law, and can a cause support;

  I’d sooner lose an eye than aught should hurt,

  In purse or name, a man of your desert:

  Just leave the whole to me: I’ll do my best

  To make you no man’s victim, no man’s jest.”

  Bid him go home and nurse himself, while you

  Act as his counsel and his agent too;

  Hold on unflinching, never bate a jot,

  Be it for wet or dry, for cold or hot,

  Though “Sirius split dumb statues up,” or though

  Fat Furius “spatter the bleak Alps with snow.”

  “What steady nerve!” some bystander will cry,

  Nudging a friend; “what zeal! what energy!

  What rare devotion!” ay, the game goes well;

  In flow the tunnies, and your fish-ponds swell.

  Another plan: suppose a man of wealth

  Has but one son, and that in weakly health;

  Creep round the father, lest the court you pay

  To childless widowers your game betray,

  That he may put you second, and, in case

  The poor youth die, insert you in his place,

  And so you get the whole: a throw like this,

  Discreetly hazarded, will seldom miss.

  If offered by your friend his will to read,

  Decline it with a “Thank you! no, indeed!”

  Yet steal a side-long glance as you decline

  At the first parchment and the second line,

  Just to discover if he leaves you heir

  All by yourself, or others have a share.

  A constable turned notary oft will cheat

  Your raven of the cheese he thought to eat;

  And sly Nasica will become, you’ll see,

  Coranus’ joke, but not his legatee.

  U. What? are you mad, or do you mean to balk

  My thirst for knowledge by this riddling talk?

  T. O Laertiades! what I foreshow

  To mortals, either will take place or no;

  For ’tis the voice of Phoebus from his shrine

  That speaks in me and makes my words divine.

  U. Forgive my vehemence, and kindly state

  The meaning of the fable you narrate.

  T. When he, the Parthian’s dread, whose blood comes down

  E’en from Aeneas’ veins, shall win renown

  By land and sea, a marriage shall betide

  Between Coranus, wight of courage tried,

  And old Nasica’s daughter, tall and large,

  Whose sire owes sums he never will discharge.

  The duteous son-in-law his will presents,

  And begs the sire to study its contents:

  At length Nasica, having long demurred,

  Takes it and reads it through without a word;

  And when the whole is done, perceives in fine

  That he and his are simply left — to whine.

  Suppose some freedman, or some crafty dame

  Rules an old driveller, you may join their game:

  Say all that’s good of them to him, that they,

  When your back’s turned, the like of you may say

  This plan has merits; but ’tis better far

  To take the fort itself, and end the war.

  A shrewd old crone at Thebes (the fact occurred

  When I was old) was thus by will interred:

  Her corpse was oiled all over, and her heir

  Bore it to burial on his shoulders bare:

  He’d stuck to her while living; so she said

  She’d give him, if she could, the slip when dead.

  Be cautious in attack; observe the mean,

  And neither be too lukewarm, nor too keen.

  Much talk annoys the testy and morose,

  But ’tis not well to be reserved and close.

  Act Davus in the drama: droop your head,

  And use the gestures of a man in dread.

  Be all attention: if the wind is brisk,

  Say, “Wrap that precious h
ead up! run no risk!”

  Push shouldering through a crowd, the way to clear

  Before him; when he maunders, prick your ear.

  He craves for praise; administer the puff

  Till, lifting up both hands, he cries “Enough.”

  But when, rewarded and released, at last

  You gain the end of all your service past,

  And, not in dreams but soberly awake,

  Hear “One full quarter let Ulysses take,”

  Say, once or twice, “And is good Dama dead?

  Where shall I find his like for heart and head?”

  If possible, shed tears: at least conceal

  The tell-tale smiles that speak the joy you feel.

  Then, for the funeral: with your hands untied,

  Beware of erring upon meanness’ side:

  No; let your friend be handsomely interred,

  And let the neighbourhood give you its good word.

  Should one of your co-heirs be old, and vexed

  With an inveterate cough, approach him next:

  A house or lands he’d purchase that belong

  To your estate: they’re his for an old song.

  But Proserpine commands me; I must fly;

  Her will is law; I wish you health; good-bye.

  SATIRE VI.

  HOC ERAT IN VOTIS.

  This used to be my wish: a bit of land,

  A house and garden with a spring at hand,

  And just a little wood. The gods have crowned

  My humble vows; I prosper and abound:

  Nor ask I more, kind Mercury, save that thou

  Wouldst give me still the goods thou giv’st me now:

  If crime has ne’er increased them, nor excess

  And want of thrift are like to make them less;

  If I ne’er pray like this, “O might that nook

  Which spoils my field be mine by hook or crook!

  O for a stroke of luck like his, who found

  A crock of silver, turning up the ground,

  And, thanks to good Alcides, farmed as buyer

  The very land where he had slaved for hire!”

  If what I have contents me, hear my prayer:

  Still let me feel thy tutelary care,

  And let my sheep, my pastures, this and that,

  My all, in fact, (except my brains,) be fat.

  Now, lodged in my hill-castle, can I choose

  Companion fitter than my homely Muse?

  Here no town duties vex, no plague-winds blow,

  Nor Autumn, friend to graveyards, works me woe.

  Sire of the morning (do I call thee right,

  Or hear’st thou Janus’ name with more delight?)

  Who introducest, so the gods ordain,

  Life’s various tasks, inaugurate my strain.

  At Rome to bail I’m summoned. “Do your part,”

  Thou bidd’st me; “quick, lest others get the start.”

  So, whether Boreas roars, or winter’s snow

  Clips short the day, to court I needs must go.

  I give the fatal pledge, distinct and loud,

  Then pushing, struggling, battle with the crowd.

  “Now, madman!” clamours some one, not without

  A threat or two, “just mind what you’re about:

  What? you must knock down all that’s in your way,

  Because you’re posting to Maecenas, eh?”

  This pleases me, I own; but when I get

  To black Esquiliae, trouble waits me yet:

  For other people’s matters in a swarm

  Buzz round my head and take my ears by storm.

  “Sir, Roscius would be glad if you’d arrange

  By eight a. m. to be with him on ’Change.”

  “Quintus, the scribes entreat you to attend

  A meeting of importance, as their friend.”

  “Just get Maecenas’ seal attached to these.”

  “I’ll try.” “O, you can do it, if you please.”

  Seven years, or rather eight, have well-nigh passed

  Since with Maecenas’ friends I first was classed,

  To this extent, that, driving through the street,

  He’d stop his car and offer me a seat,

  Or make such chance remarks as “What’s o’clock?”

  “Will Syria’s champion beat the Thracian cock?”

  “These morning frosts are apt to be severe;”

  Just chit-chat, suited to a leaky ear.

  Since that auspicious date, each day and hour

  Has placed me more and more in envy’s power:

  “He joined his play, sat next him at the games:

  A child of Fortune!” all the world exclaims.

  From the high rostra a report comes down,

  And like a chilly fog, pervades the town:

  Each man I meet accosts me “Is it so?

  You live so near the gods, you’re sure to know:

  That news about the Dacians? have you heard

  No secret tidings?” “Not a single word.”

  “O yes! you love to banter us poor folk.”

  “Nay, if I’ve heard a tittle, may I choke!”

  “Will Caesar grant his veterans their estates

  In Italy, or t’other side of the straits?”

  I swear that I know nothing, and am dumb:

  They think me deep, miraculously mum.

  And so my day between my fingers slips,

  While fond regrets keep rising to my lips:

  O my dear homestead in the country! when

  Shall I behold your pleasant face again;

  And, studying now, now dozing and at ease,

  Imbibe forgetfulness of all this tease?

  O when, Pythagoras, shall thy brother bean,

  With pork and cabbage, on my board be seen?

  O happy nights and suppers half divine,

  When, at the home-gods’ altar, I and mine

  Enjoy a frugal meal, and leave the treat

  Unfinished for my merry slaves to eat!

  Not bound by mad-cap rules, but free to choose

  Big cups or small, each follows his own views:

  You toss your wine off boldly, if you please,

  Or gently sip, and mellow by degrees.

  We talk of — not our neighbour’s house or field,

  Nor the last feat of Lepos, the light-heeled —

  But matters which to know concerns us more,

  Which none but at his peril can ignore;

  Whether ’tis wealth or virtue makes men blest,

  What leads to friendship, worth or interest,

  In what the good consists, and what the end

  And chief of goods, on which the rest depend:

  While neighbour Cervius, with his rustic wit,

  Tells old wives’ tales, this case or that to hit.

  Should some one be unwise enough to praise

  Arellius’ toilsome wealth, he straightway says:

  “One day a country mouse in his poor home

  Received an ancient friend, a mouse from Rome:

  The host, though close and careful, to a guest

  Could open still: so now he did his best.

  He spares not oats or vetches: in his chaps

  Raisins he brings and nibbled bacon-scraps,

  Hoping by varied dainties to entice

  His town-bred guest, so delicate and nice,

  Who condescended graciously to touch

  Thing after thing, but never would take much,

  While he, the owner of the mansion, sate

  On threshed-out straw, and spelt and darnels ate.

  At length the townsman cries: “I wonder how

  You can live here, friend, on this hill’s rough brow:

  Take my advice, and leave these ups and downs,

  This hill and dale, for humankind and towns.

  Come now, go home with me: remember, all

  Who live on earth are mortal, great and small:
/>   Then take, good sir, your pleasure while you may;

  With life so short, ‘twere wrong to lose a day.”

  This reasoning made the rustic’s head turn round;

  Forth from his hole he issues with a bound,

  And they two make together for their mark,

  In hopes to reach the city during dark.

  The midnight sky was bending over all,

  When they set foot within a stately hall,

  Where couches of wrought ivory had been spread

  With gorgeous coverlets of Tyrian red,

  And viands piled up high in baskets lay,

  The relics of a feast of yesterday.

  The townsman does the honours, lays his guest

  At ease upon a couch with crimson dressed,

  Then nimbly moves in character of host,

  And offers in succession boiled and roast;

  Nay, like a well-trained slave, each wish prevents,

  And tastes before the tit-bits he presents.

  The guest, rejoicing in his altered fare,

  Assumes in turn a genial diner’s air,

  When hark! a sudden banging of the door:

  Each from his couch is tumbled on the floor:

  Half dead, they scurry round the room, poor things,

  While the whole house with barking mastiffs rings.

  Then says the rustic: “It may do for you,

  This life, but I don’t like it; so adieu:

  Give me my hole, secure from all alarms,

  I’ll prove that tares and vetches still have charms.”

  SATIRE VII.

  JAMDUDUM AUSCULTO.

  DAVUS. HORACE.

  DAVUS.

  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 balk

  Our fathers’ good intentions: have your talk.

  D. Some men there are take pleasure in what’s ill

  Persistently, 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 wear

  Three rings at once, then show his finger bare;

  First he’d be senator, then knight, and then