In 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 face
Vertumnus wears was pulling a grimace.
Shark Volanerius tried to disappoint
The gout that left his fingers ne’er a joint
By hiring some one at so much per day
To shake the dicebox while he sat at play;
Consistent in his faults, so less a goose
Than 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 dwell
With men like those, you’d strenuously rebel,
Either because you don’t believe at heart
That 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 bless
The stars that let you eat your quiet mess,
Vow that engagements are mere clogs, and think
You’re happy that you’ve no one’s wine to drink.
But should Maecenas, somewhat late, invite
His favourite bard to come by candle-light,
“Bring me the oil this instant! is there none
Hears 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 found
Than 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 late
The 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 trice
Nature unbridled plunges into vice.
What? you to be my master, who obey
More 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 call
The 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 check
His baser self, who lives at his own beck,
Whom neither poverty nor dungeon drear
Nor 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 eyes
At some rude sketch of fencers for a prize,
Where, drawn in charcoal or red ochre, just
As 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 obey
My stomach? true, my back is made to pay:
But when you let rich tit-bits pass your lip
That 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 chop
A 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 seek
In bed or in your cups from care to sneak:
In vain: the black dog follows you, and hangs
Close 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 eight
Who do their digging down at my estate.
SATIRE VIII.
UT NASIDIENI.
HORACE. FUNDANIUS.
HORACE.
That rich Nasidienus — let me hear
How yesterday you relished his good cheer:
For when I tried to get you, I was told
You’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 appeared
And rubbed and wiped it clean: another boy
Removed the scraps, and all that might annoy:
“While dark Hydaspes, like an Attic maid
Who 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 glean
Who else was present at so rare a scene.
F. Myself at top, then Viscus, and below
Was Varius: after us came Balatro,
Vibidius also, present at the treat
Unasked, as members of Maecenas’ suite.
Porcius and Nomentanus last, and he,
Our host, who lay betwixt them, made the three:
Porcius th
e 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 placed
Before 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 treats
Of 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 cheek
Turned deadly white, as thus he heard him speak;
For of the nuisances that can befall
A 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 tilt
Whole flagons into cups Allifae-built:
We follow suit: the host’s two friends alone
Forbore 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 caught
While pregnant: after spawning it is naught.
We make our sauce with oil, of the best strain
Venafrum 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 mess
To 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 spread
Came tumbling in a heap from overhead,
Dragging withal black dust in whirlwinds, more
Than Boreas raises on Campania’s floor:
We, when the shock is over, smile to see
The danger less than we had feared ’twould be,
And breathe again. Poor Rufus drooped his head
And 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 gains
A meed of praise proportioned to its pains.
What gross injustice! just that I may get
A 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 displayed
In 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 report
What 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 pretence
For 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 load
Of a huge dish where limbs of crane were stowed,
Salted and floured; a goose’s liver, crammed
To twice its bulk, so close the figs were jammed;
And wings of hares dressed separate, better so
Than 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 speech
About 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 air
Of viperous poison on the whole affair.
EPODES (PROSE)
Translated by C. Smart
Published circa 30 BC, Horace’s epodes are among his earliest and most experimental poems. Traditionally the epode was the third part of an ode, which followed the strophe and the antistrophe. The epode is ascribed to the early Greek poet Archilochus of the island of Paros, who was renowned for his cutting and sarcastic use of tone while employing the epode form. Many years later, Horace sought to introduce a new form of lyric poetry in Latin literature by releasing a book of epodes and imitating the effect of the iambic distichs used by Archilochus. Therefore, the first ten of these epodes are composed in alternate verses of iambic trimeter and iambic dimeter, as for example, demonstrated in Epode 5.1–2:
At o deorum quidquid in caelo regit
terras et humanum genus
But, o any of the gods in the heavens ruling
the lands and the human race.
In the seven remaining epodes Horace diversified the measures, while retaining the general character of the distich. The epodes clearly identify the early youth of the poet, displaying an aggressive and controversial nature, which are absent from his more mature works. As he was imitating the model of Archilochus, Horace used sarcastic and fierce language to capture his desired tone. Several of the epodes are also memorable for having a ‘sting’ at the end of the poem, seeking to surprise the reader.
Bust of Horace as a young man
CONTENTS
EPODE I.
EPODE II.
EPODE III.
EPODE IV.
EPODE V.
EPODE VI.
EPODE VII.
EPODE VIII.
EPODE IX.
EPODE X.
EPODE XI.
EPODE XII.
EPODE XIII.
EPODE XIV.
EPODE XV.
EPODE XVI.
EPODE XVII.
EPODE I.
TO MAECENAS.
Thou wilt go, my friend Maecenas, with Liburian galleys among the towering forts of ships, ready at thine own [hazard] to undergo any of Caesar’s dangers. What shall I do? To whom life may be agreeable, if you survive; but, if otherwise, burdensome. Whether shall I, at your command, pursue my ease, which can not be pleasing unless in your company? Or shall I endure this toil with such a courage, as becomes effeminate men to bear? I will bear it? and with an intrepid soul follow you, either through the summits of the Alps, and the inhospitable Caucus, or to the furthest western bay. You may ask how I, unwarlike and infirm, can assist your labors by mine? While I am your companion, I shall be in less anxiety, which takes possession of the absent in a greater measure. As the bird, that has unfledged young, is in a greater dread of serpents’ approaches, when they are left; — not that, if she should be present when they came, she could render more help. Not only this, but every other war, shall be cheerfully
embraced by me for the hope of your favor; [and this,] not that my plows should labor, yoked to a greater number of mine own oxen; or that my cattle before the scorching dog-star should change the Calabrian for the Lucanian pastures: neither that my white country-box should equal the Circaean walls of lofty Tusculum. Your generosity has enriched me enough, and more than enough: I shall never wish to amass, what either, like the miser Chremes, I may bury in the earth, or luxuriously squander, like a prodigal.
EPODE II.
THE PRAISES OF A COUNTRY LIFE.
Happy the man, who, remote from business, after the manner of the ancient race of mortals, cultivates his paternal lands with his own oxen, disengaged from every kind of usury; he is neither alarmed by the horrible trump, as a soldier, nor dreads he the angry sea; he shuns both the bar and the proud portals of citizens in power. Wherefore he either weds the lofty poplars to the mature branches of the vine; and, lopping off the useless boughs with his pruning-knife, he ingrafts more fruitful ones: or he takes a prospect of the herds of his lowing cattle, wandering about in a lonely vale; or stores his honey, pressed [from the combs], in clean vessels; or shears his tender sheep. Or, when autumn has lifted up in the fields his head adorned with mellow fruits, how does he rejoice, while he gathers the grafted pears, and the grape that vies with the purple, with which he may recompense thee, O Priapus, and thee, father Sylvanus, guardian of his boundaries! Sometimes he delights to lie under an aged holm, sometimes on the matted grass: meanwhile the waters glide along in their deep channels; the birds warble in the woods; and the fountains murmur with their purling streams, which invites gentle slumbers. But when the wintery season of the tempestuous air prepares rains and snows, he either drives the fierce boars, with many a dog, into the intercepting toils; or spreads his thin nets with the smooth pole, as a snare for the voracious thrushes; or catches in his gin the timorous hare, or that stranger the crane, pleasing rewards [for his labor]. Among such joys as these, who does not forget those mischievous anxieties, which are the property of love. But if a chaste wife, assisting on her part [in the management] of the house, and beloved children (such as is the Sabine, or the sun-burned spouse of the industrious Apulian), piles up the sacred hearth with old wood, just at the approach of her weary husband; and, shutting up the fruitful cattle in the woven hurdles, milks dry their distended udders: and, drawing this year’s wine out of a well-seasoned cask, prepares the unbought collation: not the Lucrine oysters could delight me more, nor the turbot, nor the scar, should the tempestuous winter drive any from the eastern floods to this sea: not the turkey, nor the Asiatic wild-fowl, can come into my stomach more agreeably, than the olive gathered from the richest branches from the trees, or the sorrel that loves the meadows, or mallows salubrious for a sickly body, or a lamb slain at the feast of Terminus, or a kid rescued from the wolf. Amid these dainties, how it pleases one to see the well-fed sheep hastening home! to see the weary oxen, with drooping neck, dragging the inverted ploughshare! and slaves, the test of a rich family, ranged about the smiling household gods! When Alfius, the usurer, now on the point of turning countryman, had said this, he collected in all his money on the Ides; and endeavors to put it out again at the Calends.
Complete Works of Horace (Illustrated) (Delphi Ancient Classics) Page 16