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

by Horace Quintus Horatius Flaccus

  He takes the woods, and swells the hunters’ din.

  Now, while your system’s plastic, ope each pore;

  Now seek wise friends, and drink in all their lore:

  The smell that’s first imparted will adhere

  To seasoned jars through many an after year.

  But if you lag behind or head me far,

  Don’t think I mean to mend my pace, or mar;

  In my own jog-trot fashion on I go,

  Not vying with the swift, not waiting for the slow.

  III. TO JULIUS FLORUS.

  JULI FLORE.

  Florus, I wish to learn, but don’t know how,

  Where Claudius and his troops are quartered now.

  Say, is it Thrace and Haemus’ winter snows,

  Or the famed strait ‘twixt tower and tower that flows,

  Or Asia’s rich exuberance of plain

  And upland slope, that holds you in its chain?

  Inform me too (for that, you will not doubt,

  Concerns me), what the ingenious staff’s about:

  Who writes of Caesar’s triumphs, and portrays

  The tale of peace and war for future days?

  How thrives friend Titius, who will soon become

  A household word in the saloons of Rome;

  Who dares to drink of Pindar’s well, and looks

  With scorn on our cheap tanks and vulgar brooks?

  Wastes he a thought on Horace? does he suit

  The strains of Thebes or Latium’s virgin lute,

  By favour of the Muse, or grandly rage

  And roll big thunder on the tragic stage?

  What is my Celsus doing? oft, in truth,

  I’ve warned him, and he needs it yet, good youth,

  To trust himself, nor touch the classic stores

  That Palatine Apollo keeps indoors,

  Lest when some day the feathered tribe resumes

  (You know the tale) the appropriated plumes,

  Folks laugh to see him act the jackdaw’s part,

  Denuded of the dress that looked so smart.

  And you, what aims are yours? what thymy ground

  Allures the bee to hover round and round?

  Not small your wit, nor rugged and unkempt;

  ‘Twill answer bravely to a bold attempt:

  Whether you train for pleading, or essay

  To practise law, or frame some graceful lay,

  The ivy-wreath awaits you. Could you bear

  To leave quack nostrums, that but palliate care,

  Then might you lean on heavenly wisdom’s hand

  And use her guidance to a loftier land.

  Be this our task, whate’er our station, who

  To country and to self would fain be true.

  This too concerns me: does Munatius hold

  In Florus’ heart the place he held of old,

  Or is that ugly breach in your good will

  We hoped had closed unhealed and gaping still?

  Well, be it youth or ignorance of life

  That sets your hot ungoverned bloods at strife,

  Where’er you bide, ‘twere shame to break the ties

  Which made you once sworn brethren and allies:

  So, when your safe return shall come to pass,

  I’ve got a votive heifer out at grass.

  IV. TO ALBIUS TIBULLUS

  ALBI, NOSTRORUM.

  Albius, kind critic of my satires, say,

  What do you down at Pedum far away?

  Are you composing what will dim the shine

  Of Cassius’ works, so delicately fine,

  Or sauntering, calm and healthful, through the wood,

  Bent on such thoughts as suit the wise and good?

  No brainless trunk is yours: a form to please,

  Wealth, wit to use it, Heaven vouchsafes you these.

  What could fond nurse wish more for her sweet pet

  Than friends, good looks, and health without a let,

  A shrewd clear head, a tongue to speak his mind,

  A seemly household, and a purse well-lined?

  Let hopes and sorrows, fears and angers be,

  And think each day that dawns the last you’ll see;

  For so the hour that greets you unforeseen

  Will bring with it enjoyment twice as keen.

  Ask you of me? you’ll laugh to find me grown

  A hog of Epicurus, full twelve stone.

  V. TO TORQUATUS.

  SI POTES ARCHIACIS.

  If you can lie, Torquatus, when you take

  Your meal, upon a couch of Archias’ make,

  And sup off potherbs, gathered as they come,

  You’ll join me, please, by sunset at my home.

  My wine, not far from Sinuessa grown,

  Is but six years in bottle, I must own:

  If you’ve a better vintage, send it here,

  Or take your cue from him who finds the cheer.

  My hearth is swept, my household looks its best,

  And all my furniture expects a guest.

  Forego your dreams of riches and applause,

  Forget e’en Moschus’ memorable cause;

  To-morrow’s Caesar’s birthday, which we keep

  By taking, to begin with, extra sleep;

  So, if with pleasant converse we prolong

  This summer night, we scarcely shall do wrong.

  Why should the Gods have put me at my ease,

  If I mayn’t use my fortune as I please?

  The man who stints and pinches for his heir

  Is next-door neighbour to a fool, I’ll swear.

  Here, give me flowers to strew, my goblet fill,

  And let men call me mad-cap if they will.

  O, drink is mighty! secrets it unlocks,

  Turns hope to fact, sets cowards on to box,

  Takes burdens from the careworn, finds out parts

  In stupid folks, and teaches unknown arts.

  What tongue hangs fire when quickened by the bowl?

  What wretch so poor but wine expands his soul?

  Meanwhile, I’m bound in duty, nothing both,

  To see that nought in coverlet or cloth

  May give you cause to sniff, that dish and cup

  May serve you as a mirror while you sup;

  To have my guests well-sorted, and take care

  That none is present who’ll tell tales elsewhere.

  You’ll find friend Butra and Septicius here,

  Ditto Sabinus, failing better cheer:

  And each might bring a friend or two as well,

  But then, you know, close packing’s apt to smell.

  Come, name your number, and elude the guard

  Your client keeps by slipping through the yard.

  VI. TO NUMICIUS.

  NIL ADMIRARI.

  Not to admire, Numicius, is the best,

  The only way, to make and keep men blest.

  The sun, the stars, the seasons of the year

  That come and go, some gaze at without fear:

  What think you of the gifts of earth and sea,

  The untold wealth of Ind or Araby,

  Or, to come nearer home, our games and shows,

  The plaudits and the honours Rome bestows?

  How should we view them? ought they to convulse

  The well-strung frame and agitate the pulse?

  Who fears the contrary, or who desires

  The things themselves, in either case admires;

  Each way there’s flutter; something unforeseen

  Disturbs the mind that else had been serene.

  Joy, grief, desire or fear, whate’er the name

  The passion bears, its influence is the same;

  Where things exceed your hope or fall below,

  You stare, look blank, grow numb from top to toe.

  E’en virtue’s self, if followed to excess,

  Turns right to wrong, good sense to foolishness.

  Go now, my friend, drink in wit
h all your eyes

  Bronze, silver, marble, gems, and Tyrian dyes,

  Feel pride when speaking in the sight of Rome,

  Go early out to ’Change and late come home,

  For fear your income drop beneath the rate

  That comes to Mutus from his wife’s estate,

  And (shame and scandal!), though his line is new,

  You give the pas to him, not he to you.

  Whate’er is buried mounts at last to light,

  While things get hid in turn that once looked bright.

  So when Agrippa’s mall and Appius’ way

  Have watched your well-known figure day by day,

  At length the summons comes, and you must go

  To Numa and to Ancus down below.

  Your side’s in pain; a doctor hits the blot:

  You wish to live aright (and who does not?);

  If virtue holds the secret, don’t defer;

  Be off with pleasure, and be on with her.

  But no; you think all morals sophists’ tricks,

  Bring virtue down to words, a grove to sticks;

  Then hey for wealth! quick, quick, forestall the trade

  With Phrygia and the East, your fortune’s made.

  One thousand talents here — one thousand there —

  A third — a fourth, to make the thing four-square.

  A dowried wife, friends, beauty, birth, fair fame,

  These are the gifts of money, heavenly dame:

  Be but a moneyed man, persuasion tips

  Your tongue, and Venus settles on your lips.

  The Cappadocian king has slaves enow,

  But gold he lacks: so be it not with you.

  Lucullus was requested once, they say,

  A hundred scarves to furnish for the play:

  “A hundred!” he replied, “’tis monstrous; still

  I’ll look; and send you what I have, I will.”

  Ere long he writes: “Five thousand scarves I find;

  Take part of them, or all if you’re inclined.”

  That’s a poor house where there’s not much to spare

  Which masters never miss and servants wear.

  So, if ’tis wealth that makes and keeps us blest,

  Be first to start and last to drop the quest.

  If power and mob-applause be man’s chief aims,

  Let’s hire a slave to tell us people’s names,

  To jog us on the side, and make us reach,

  At risk of tumbling down, a hand to each:

  “This rules the Fabian, that the Veline clan;

  Just as he likes, he seats or ousts his man:”

  Observe their ages, have your greeting pat,

  And duly “brother” this, and “father” that.

  Say that the art to live’s the art to sup,

  Go fishing, hunting, soon as sunlight’s up,

  As did Gargilius, who at break of day

  Swept with his nets and spears the crowded way,

  Then, while all Rome looked on in wonder, brought

  Home on a single mule a boar he’d bought.

  Thence pass on to the bath-room, gorged and crude,

  Our stomachs stretched with undigested food,

  Lost to all self-respect, all sense of shame,

  Disfranchised freemen, Romans but in name,

  Like to Ulysses’ crew, that worthless band,

  Who cared for pleasure more than fatherland.

  If, as Mimnermus tells you, life is flat

  With nought to love, devote yourself to that.

  Farewell: if you can mend these precepts, do:

  If not, what serves for me may serve for you.

  VII. TO MAECENAS.

  QUINQUE DIES TIBI POLLICITUS.

  Five days I told you at my farm I’d stay,

  And lo! the whole of August I’m away.

  Well, but, Maecenas, yon would have me live,

  And, were I sick, my absence you’d forgive;

  So let me crave indulgence for the fear

  Of falling ill at this bad time of year,

  When, thanks to early figs and sultry heat,

  The undertaker figures with his suite,

  When fathers all and fond mammas grow pale

  At what may happen to their young heirs male,

  And courts and levees, town-bred mortals’ ills,

  Bring fevers on, and break the seals of wills.

  When winter strews the Alban fields with snow,

  Down to the sea your chilly bard will go,

  There keep the house and study at his ease,

  All huddled up together, nose and knees:

  With the first swallow, if you’ll have him then,

  He’ll come, dear friend, and visit you again.

  Not like the coarse Calabrian boor, who pressed

  His store of pears upon a sated guest,

  Have you bestowed your favours. “Eat them, pray.”

  “I’ve done.” “Then carry all you please away.”

  “I thank you, no.” “Your boys won’t like you less

  For taking home a sack of them, I guess.”

  “I could not thank you more if I took all.”

  “Ah well, if you won’t eat them, the pigs shall.”

  ’Tis silly prodigality, to throw

  Those gifts broadcast whose value you don’t know:

  Such tillage yields ingratitude, and will,

  While human nature is the soil you till.

  A wise good man has ears for merit’s claim,

  Yet does not reckon brass and gold the same.

  I also will “assume desert,” and prove

  I value him whose bounty speaks his love.

  If you would keep me always, give me back

  My sturdy sides, my clustering locks of black,

  My pleasant voice and laugh, the tears I shed

  That night when Cinara from the table fled.

  A poor pinched field-mouse chanced to make its way

  Through a small rent in a wheat-sack one day,

  And, having gorged and stuffed, essayed in vain

  To squeeze its body through the hole again:

  “Ah!” cried a weasel, “wait till you get thin;

  Then, if you will, creep out as you crept in.”

  Well, if to me the story folks apply,

  I give up all I’ve got without a sigh:

  Not mine to cram down guinea-fowls, and then

  Heap praises on the sleep of labouring men;

  Give me a country life and leave me free,

  I would not choose the wealth of Araby.

  I’ve called you Father, praised your royal grace

  Behind your back as well as to your face;

  You’ve owned I have a conscience: try me now

  If I can quit your gifts with cheerful brow.

  That was a prudent answer which, we’re told,

  The son of wise Ulysses made of old:

  “Our Ithaca is scarce the place for steeds;

  It has no level plains, no grassy meads:

  Atrides, if you’ll let me, I’ll decline

  A gift that better meets your wants than mine.”

  Small things become small folks: imperial Rome

  Is all too large, too bustling for a home;

  The empty heights of Tibur, or the bay

  Of soft Tarentum, more are in my way.

  Philip, the famous counsel, years ago,

  Was moving home at two, sedate and slow,

  Old, and fatigued with pleading at the bar,

  And grumbling that he lived away so far,

  When suddenly he chanced his eye to drop

  On a spruce personage in a barber’s shop,

  Who in the shopman’s absence lounged at ease,

  Paring his nails as calmly as you please.

  “Demetrius” — so was called the slave he kept

  To do his errands, a well-trained adept —

  “Find out about that man for m
e; enquire

  His name and rank, his patron or his sire.”

  He soon brings word that Mena is the name,

  An auction-crier, poor, but without blame,

  One who can work or idle, get or spend,

  Who loves his home and likes to see a friend,

  Enjoys the circus, and when work’s got through,

  Hies to the field, and does as others do.

  “I’ll hear the details from himself: go say

  I’ll thank him if he’ll sup with me to-day.”

  Mena can scarce believe it; posed and mum

  He ponders; then, with thanks, declines to come.

  “What? does he dare to say me nay?” “Just so;

  Be it reserve or disrespect, ’tis no.”

  Philip next morn finds Mena at a sale

  “Where odds and ends are going by retail,

  And greets him first. He, stammeringly profuse,

  Alleges ties of business in excuse

  For not by day-break knocking at his door,

  And last, for not observing him before.

  “Well, bygones shall be bygones, if so be

  You’ll come this afternoon and sup with me.”

  “I’m at your service.” “Then ‘twixt four and five

  You’ll come: now go, and do your best to thrive.”

  He’s there in time; what comes into his head

  He chatters, right or wrong; then off to bed.

  So, when he’d learnt to nibble at the bait,

  At levee early and at supper late,

  One holiday he’s bidden to come down

  With Philip to his villa out of town.

  Astride on horseback, both, he vows, are rare,

  The Sabine country and the Sabine air.

  Philip looks on and chuckles, his one aim

  To get a laugh by keeping up the game,

  Lends him seven hundred, gives him out of hand

  Seven more, and leads him on to buy some land.

  ’Tis bought: to make a lengthy tale concise,

  The man becomes a clown who once was nice,

  Talks all of elms and vineyards, ploughs and soil,

  And ages fast with struggling and sheer toil;

  Till, when his sheep are stolen, his bullock drops,

  His goats die off, a blight destroys his crops,

  One night he takes a waggon-horse, and sore