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

by Horace Quintus Horatius Flaccus

  His fortune, took to living on the town,

  A social beast of prey, with no fixed home,

  He ranged and ravened o’er the whole of Rome;

  His maw unfilled, he’d turn on friend and foe;

  None was too high for worrying, none too low;

  The scourge and murrain of each butcher’s shop,

  Whate’er he got, he stuffed into his crop.

  So, when he’d failed in getting e’er a bit

  From those who liked or feared his wicked wit,

  Then down a throat of three-bear power he’d cram

  Plate after plate of offal, tripe or lamb,

  And swear, as Bestius might, your gourmand knaves

  Should have their stomachs branded like a slave’s.

  But give the brute a piece of daintier prey,

  When all was done, he’d smack his lips and say,

  “In faith I cannot wonder, when I hear

  Of folks who waste a fortune on good cheer,

  For there’s no treat in nature more divine

  Than a fat thrush or a big paunch of swine.”

  I’m just his double: when my purse is lean

  I hug myself, and praise the golden mean,

  Stout when not tempted; but suppose some day

  A special titbit comes into my way,

  I vow man’s happiness is ne’er complete

  Till based on a substantial country seat.

  XVI. TO QUINCTIUS.

  NE PERCONTERIS.

  About my farm, dear Quinctius; you would know

  What sort of produce for its lord ‘twill grow;

  Plough-land is it, or meadow-land, or soil

  For apples, vine-clad elms, or olive oil?

  So (but you’ll think me garrulous) I’ll write

  A full description of its form and site.

  In long continuous line the mountains run,

  Cleft by a valley which twice feels the sun,

  Once on the right when first he lifts his beams,

  Once on the left, when he descends in steams.

  You’d praise the climate: well, and what d’ye say

  To sloes and cornels hanging from the spray?

  What to the oak and ilex, that afford

  Fruit to the cattle, shelter to their lord?

  What, but that rich Tarentum must have been

  Transplanted nearer Rome with all its green?

  Then there’s a fountain of sufficient size

  To name the river that takes thence its rise,

  Not Thracian Hebrus colder or more pure,

  Of power the head’s and stomach’s ills to cure.

  This sweet retirement — nay, ’tis more than sweet —

  Ensures my health e’en in September’s heat.

  And how fare you? if you deserve in truth

  The name men give you, you’re a happy youth:

  Rome’s thousand tongues, agreed at least in this,

  Ascribe to you a plenitude of bliss.

  Yet, when you judge of self, I fear you’re prone

  To take another’s word before your own,

  To think of happiness as ‘twere a prize

  That men may win though neither good nor wise:

  Just so the glutton whom the world thinks well

  Keeps dark his fever till the dinner-bell;

  Then, as he’s eating, with his hands well greased,

  Shivering comes on, and proves the fool diseased.

  O, ’tis a false, false shame that would conceal

  From doctors’ eyes the sores it cannot heal!

  Suppose a man should trumpet your success

  By land and sea, and make you this address:

  “May Jove, who watches with the same good-will

  O’er you and Rome, preserve the secret still,

  Whether the heart within you beats more true

  To Rome and to her sons, or theirs to you!”

  Howe’er your ears might flatter you, you’d say

  The praise was Caesar’s, and had gone astray.

  Yet should the town pronounce you wise and good,

  You’d take it to yourself, you know you would.

  “Take it? of course I take it,” you reply;

  “You love the praise yourself, then why not I?”

  Aye, but the town, that gives you praise to-day,

  Next week can snatch it, if it please, away,

  As in elections it can mend mistakes,

  And whom it makes one year, the next unmakes.

  “Lay down the fasces,” it exclaims; “they’re mine:”

  I lay them down, and sullenly resign.

  Well now, if “Thief” and “Profligate” they roar,

  Or lay my father’s murder at my door,

  Am I to let their lying scandals bite

  And change my honest cheeks from red to white?

  Trust me, false praise has charms, false blame has pains

  But for vain hearts, long ears, and addled brains.

  Whom call we good? The man who keeps intact

  Each law, each right, each statute and each act,

  Whose arbitration terminates dispute,

  Whose word’s a bond, whose witness ends a suit.

  Yet his whole house and all the neighbours know

  He’s bad at heart, despite his decent show.

  “I,” says a slave, “ne’er ran away nor stole:”

  Well, what of that? say I: your skin is whole.

  “I’ve shed no blood.” You shall not feed the orow.

  “I’m good and true.” We Sabine folks say No:

  The wolf avoids the pit, the hawk the snare,

  And hidden hooks teach fishes to beware.

  ’Tis love of right that keeps the good from wrong;

  You do no harm because you fear the thong;

  Could you be sure that no one would detect,

  E’en sacrilege might tempt you, I suspect.

  Steal but one bean, although the loss be small,

  The crime’s as great as if you stole them all.

  See your good man, who oft as he appears

  In court commands all judgments and all ears;

  Observe him now, when to the gods he pays

  His ox or swine, and listen what he says:

  “Great Janus, Phoebus” — this he speaks aloud;

  The rest is muttered all and unavowed —

  “Divine Laverna, grant me safe disguise;

  Let me seem just and upright in men’s eyes;

  Shed night upon my crimes, a glamour o’er my lies.”

  Say, what’s a miser but a slave complete

  When he’d pick up a penny in the street?

  Fearing’s a part of coveting, and he

  Who lives in fear is no freeman for me.

  The wretch whose thoughts by gain are all engrossed

  Has flung away his sword, betrayed his post.

  Don’t kill your captive: keep him: he will sell;

  Some things there are the creature will do well:

  He’ll plough and feed the cattle, cross the deep

  And traffic, carry corn, make produce cheap.

  The wise and good, like Bacchus in the play,

  When Fortune threats, will have the nerve to say:

  “Great king of Thebes, what pains can you devise

  The man who will not serve you to chastise?”

  “I’ll take your goods.” “My flocks, my land, to wit,

  My plate, my couches: do, if you think fit.”

  “I’ll keep you chained and guarded in close thrall.”

  “A god will come to free me when I call.”

  Yes, he will die; ’tis that the bard intends;

  For when Death comes, the power of Fortune ends.

  XVII. TO SCAEVA.

  QUAMVIS, SCAEVA.

  Though instinct tells you, Scaeva, how to act,

  And makes you live among the great with tact,

  Yet hear a fellow-student;
’tis as though

  The blind should point you out the way to go,

  But still give heed, and see if I produce

  Aught that hereafter you may find of use.

  If rest is what you like, and sleep till eight,

  If dust and rumbling wheels are what you hate,

  If tavern-life disgusts you, then repair

  To Ferentinum, and turn hermit there;

  For wealth has no monopoly of bliss,

  And life unnoticed is not lived amiss:

  But if you’d help your friends, and like a treat,

  Then drop dry bread, and take to juicy meat.

  “If Aristippus could but dine off greens,

  He’d cease to cultivate his kings and queens.”

  “If that rude snarler knew but queens and kings,

  He’d find his greens unpalatable things.”

  Thus far the rival sages. Tell me true,

  Whose words you think the wiser of the two,

  Or hear (to listen is a junior’s place)

  Why Aristippus has the better case;

  For he, the story goes, with this remark

  Once stopped the Cynic’s aggravating bark:

  “Buffoon I may be, but I ply my trade

  For solid value; you ply yours unpaid.

  I pay my daily duty to the great,

  That I may ride a horse and dine in state;

  You, though you talk of independence, yet,

  Each time you beg for scraps, contract a debt.”

  All lives sat well on Aristippus; though

  He liked the high, he yet could grace the low;

  But the dogged sage whose blanket folds in two

  Would be less apt in changing old for new.

  Take from the one his robe of costly red,

  He’ll not refuse to dress, or keep his bed;

  Clothed as you please, he’ll walk the crowded street,

  And, though not fine, will manage to look neat.

  Put purple on the other, not the touch

  Of toad or asp would startle him so much;

  Give back his blanket, or he’ll die of chill:

  Yes, give it back; he’s too absurd to kill.

  To win great fights, to lead before men’s eyes

  A captive foe, is half way to the skies:

  Just so, to gain by honourable ways

  A great man’s favour is no vulgar praise:

  You know the proverb, “Corinth town is fair,

  But ’tis not every man that can get there.”

  One man sits still, not hoping to succeed;

  One makes the journey; he’s a man indeed!

  ’Tis that we look for; not to shift a weight

  Which little frames and little souls think great,

  But stoop and bear it. Virtue’s a mere name,

  Or ’tis high venture that achieves high aim.

  Those who have tact their poverty to mask

  Before their chief get more than those who ask;

  It makes, you see, a difference, if you take

  As modest people do, or snatch your cake;

  Yet that’s the point from which our question starts,

  By what way best to get at patrons’ hearts.

  “My mother’s poor, my sister’s dower is due,

  My farm won’t sell or yield us corn enow,”

  What is all this but just the beggar’s cry,

  “I’m starving; give me food for charity”?

  “Ah!” whines another in a minor key,

  “The loaf’s in out; pray spare a slice for me.”

  But if in peace the raven would have fed,

  He’d have had less of clawing, more of bread.

  A poor companion whom his friend takes down

  To fair Surrentum or Brundisium’s town,

  If he makes much of cold, bad roads, and rain,

  Or moans o’er cash-box forced and money ta’en,

  Reminds us of a girl, some artful thing,

  Who cries for a lost bracelet or a ring,

  With this result, that when she comes to grieve

  For real misfortunes, no one will believe.

  So, hoaxed by one impostor, in the street

  A man won’t set a cripple on his feet,

  Though he invoke Osiris, and appeal

  With streaming tears to hearts that will not feel,

  “Lift up a poor lame man! I tell no lie;”

  “Treat foreigners to that,” the neighbours cry.

  XVIII. TO LOLLIUS.

  SI BENE TE NOVI.

  You’d blush, good Lollius, if I judge you right,

  To mix the parts of friend and parasite.

  ‘Twixt parasite and friend a gulf is placed,

  Wide as between the wanton and the chaste;

  Yet think not flattery friendship’s only curse:

  A different vice there is, perhaps a worse,

  A brutal boorishness, which fain would win

  Regard by unbrushed teeth and close-shorn skin,

  Yet all the while is anxious to be thought

  Pure independence, acting as it ought.

  Between these faults ’tis Virtue’s place to stand,

  At distance from the extreme on either hand.

  The flatterer by profession, whom you see

  At every feast among the lowest three,

  Hangs on his patron’s looks, takes up each word

  Which, dropped by chance, might else expire unheard,

  Like schoolboys echoing what their masters say

  In sing-song drawl, or Gnatho in the play:

  While your blunt fellow battles for a straw,

  As though he’d knock you down or take the law:

  “How now, good sir? you mean my word to doubt?

  When I once think a thing, I mayn’t speak out?

  Though living on your terms were living twice,

  Instead of once, ‘twere dear at such a price.”

  And what’s the question that brings on these fits? —

  Does Dolichos or Castor make more hits?

  Or, starting for Brundisium, will it pay

  To take the Appian or Minucian way?

  Him that gives in to dice or lewd excess,

  Who apes rich folks in equipage and dress,

  Who meanly covets to increase his store,

  And shrinks as meanly from the name of poor,

  That man his patron, though on all those heads

  Perhaps a worse offender, hates and dreads,

  Or says to him what tender parents say,

  Who’d have their children better men than they:

  “Don’t vie with me,” he says, and he says true;

  “My wealth will bear the silly things I do;

  Yours is a slender pittance at the best;

  A wise man cuts his coat — you know the rest.”

  Eutrapelus, whene’er a grudge he owed

  To any, gave him garments a la mode;

  Because, said he, the wretch will feel inspired

  With new conceptions when he’s new attired;

  He’ll sleep through half the day, let business go

  For pleasure, teach a usurer’s cash to grow;

  At last he’ll turn a fencer, or will trudge

  Beside a cart, a market-gardener’s drudge.

  Avoid all prying; what you’re told, keep back,

  Though wine or anger put you on the rack;

  Nor puff your own, nor slight your friend’s pursuits,

  Nor court the Muses when he’d chase the brutes.

  ’Twas thus the Theban brethren jarred, until

  The harp that vexed the stern one became still.

  Amphion humoured his stern brother: well,

  Your friend speaks gently; do not you rebel:

  No; when he gives the summons, and prepares

  To take the field with hounds, and darts, and snares,

  Leave your dull Muse to sulkiness and sloth,

  That both may feast
on dainties earned by both.

  ’Tis a true Roman pastime, and your frame

  Will gain thereby, no less than your good name:

  Besides, you’re strong; in running you can match

  The dogs, and kill the fiercest boar you catch:

  Who plays like you? you have but to appear

  In Mars’s field to raise a general cheer:

  Remember too, you served a hard campaign,

  When scarce past boyhood, in the wars of Spain,

  Beneath his lead who brings our standards home,

  And makes each nook of earth a prize for Rome.

  Just one thing more, lest still you should refuse

  And show caprice that nothing can excuse:

  Safe as you are from doing aught unmeet,

  You sometimes trifle at your father’s seat;

  The Actian fight in miniature you play,

  With boats for ships, your lake for Hadria’s bay,

  Your brother for your foe, your slaves for crews,

  And so you battle till you win or lose.

  Let your friend see you share his taste, he’ll vow

  He never knew what sport was like till now.

  Well, to proceed; beware, if there is room

  For warning, what you mention, and to whom;

  Avoid a ceaseless questioner; he burns

  To tell the next he talks with what he learns;

  Wide ears retain no secrets, and you know

  You can’t get back a word you once let go.

  Look round and round the man you recommend,

  For yours will be the shame should he offend.

  Sometimes we’re duped; a protege dragged down

  By his own fault must e’en be left to drown,

  That you may help another known and tried,

  And show yourself his champion if belied;

  For when ‘gainst him detraction forks her tongue,

  Be sure she’ll treat you to the same ere long.

  No time for sleeping with a fire next door;

  Neglect such things, they only blaze the more.

  A patron’s service is a strange career;

  The tiros love it, but the experts fear.

  You, while you’re sailing on a prosperous tack,

  Look out for squalls which yet may drive you back.

  The gay dislike the grave, the staid the pert,

  The quick the slow, the lazy the alert;

  Hard drinkers hate the sober, though he swear

  Those bouts at night are more than he can bear.