BOOK II

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SATIRE I.

SUNT QUIBUS IN SATIRA.

HORACE. TREBATIUS.

HORACE.

Some think in satire I'm too keen, and press The spirit of invective to excess: Some call my verses nerveless: once begin, A thousand such per day a man might spin. Trebatius, pray advise me.

T. Wipe your pen.

H. What, never write a single line again?

T. That's what I mean.

H. 'Twould suit me, I protest, Exactly: but at nights I get no rest.

T. First rub yourself three times with oil all o'er, Then swim the Tiber through from shore to shore, Taking good care, as night draws on, to steep Your brain in liquor: then you'll have your sleep. Or, if you still have such an itch to write, Sing of some moving incident of fight; Sing of great Caasar's victories: a bard Who works at that is sure to win reward.

H. Would that I could, my worthy sire! but skill And vigour lack, how great soe'er the will. Not every one can paint in epic strain The lances bristling on the embattled plain, Tell how the Gauls by broken javelins bleed, Or sing the Parthian tumbling from his steed.

T. But you can draw him just and brave, you know, As sage Lucilius did for Scipio.

H. Trust me for that: my devoir I will pay, Whene'er occasion comes to point the way. Save at fit times, no words of mine can find A way through Cassar's ear to Cassar's mind: A mettled horse, if awkwardly you stroke, Kicks out on all sides, and your leg is broke.

T. Better do this than gall with keen lampoon Cassius the rake and Maenius the buffoon, When each one, though with withers yet unwrung, Fears for himself, and hates your bitter tongue.

H. What shall I do? Milonius, when the wine Mounts to his head, and doubled lustres shine, Falls dancing; horses are what Castor loves; His twin yolk-fellow glories in the gloves: Count all the folks in all the world, you'll find A separate fancy for each separate mind. To drill reluctant words into a line, This was Lucilius' hobby, and 'tis mine. Good man, he was our better: yet he took Such pride in nought as in his darling book: That was his friend, to whom he would confide The secret thoughts he hid from all beside, And, whether Fortune used him well or ill, Thither for sympathy he turned him still: So there, as in a votive tablet penned, You see the veteran's life from end to end.

His footsteps now I follow as I may, Lucanian or Apulian, who shall say? For we Venusians live upon the line Just where Lucania and Apulia join, Planted,'tis said, there in the Samnites' place, To guard for Rome the intermediate space, Lest these or those some day should make a raid In time of war, and Roman soil invade.

But this poor implement of mine, my pen, Shall ne'er assault one soul of living men: Like a sheathed sword, I'll carry it about, Just to protect my life when I go out, A weapon I shall never care to draw, While my good neighbours keep within the law. O grant, dread Father, grant my steel may rust! Grant that no foe may play at cut and thrust With my peace-loving self! but should one seek To quarrel with me, yon shall hear him shriek: Don't say I gave no warning: up and down He shall be trolled and chorused through the town.

Cervius attacks his foes with writ and rule: Albutius' henbane is Canidia's tool: How threatens Turius? if he e'er should judge A. cause of yours, he'll bear you an ill grudge. Each has his natural weapon, you'll agree, If you will work the problem out with me: Wolves use their tooth against you, bulls their horn;

Why, but that each is to the manner born? Take worthy Scaeva now, the spendthrift heir, And trust his long-lived mother to his care; He'll lift no hand against her. No, forsooth! Wolves do not use their heel, nor bulls their tooth: But deadly hemlock, mingled in the bowl With honey, will take off the poor old soul. Well, to be brief: whether old age await My years, or Death e'en now be at the gate, Wealthy or poor, at home or banished, still, Whate'er my life's complexion, write I will.

T. Poor child! your life is hanging on a thread: Some noble friend one day will freeze you dead.

H. What? when Lucilius first with dauntless brow Addressed him to his task, as I do now, And from each hypocrite stripped off the skin He flaunted to the world, though foul within, Did Laelius, or the chief who took his name Prom conquered Carthage, grudge him his fair game?

Felt they for Lupus or Metellus, when Whole floods of satire drenched the wretched men? He took no count of persons: man by man He scourged the proudest chiefs of each proud clan, Nor spared delinquents of a humbler birth, Kind but to worth and to the friends of worth. And yet, when Scipio brave and Laelius sage Stepped down awhile like actors from the stage, They would unbend with him, and laugh and joke While his pot boiled, like other simple folk. Well, rate me at my lowest, far below Lucilius' rank and talent, yet e'en so Envy herself shall own that to the end I lived with men of mark as friend with friend, And, when she fain on living flesh and bone Would try her teeth, shall close them on a stone; That is, if grave Trebatius will concur--

T. I don't quite see; I cannot well demur; Yet you had best be cautioned, lest you draw Some mischief down from ignorance of law; If a man writes ill verses out of spite 'Gainst A or B, the sufferer may indict.

H. Ill verses? ay, I grant you: but suppose Caesar should think them good (and Caesar knows); Suppose the man you bark at has a name For every vice, while yours is free from blame.

T. O, then a laugh will cut the matter short: The case breaks down, defendant leaves the court.

SATIRE II.

QUAE VIRTUS ET QUANTA.

The art of frugal living, and its worth, To-day, my friends, Ofellus shall set forth ('Twas he that taught me it, a shrewd clear wit, Though country-spun, and for the schools unfit): Lend me your ears:--but not where meats and wine In costly service on the table shine, When the vain eye is dazzled, and the mind Recoils from truth, to idle shows resigned: No: let us talk on empty stomachs. Why? Well, if you'd have me tell you, I will try.

The judge who soils his fingers by a gift Is scarce the man a doubtful case to sift. Say that you're fairly wearied with the course, Following a hare, or breaking in a horse, Or, if, for Roman exercise too weak, You turn for your amusement to the Greek, You play at ball, and find the healthy strain Of emulation mitigates the pain, Or hurl the quoit, till toil has purged all taint Of squeamishness, and left you dry and faint; Sniff, if you can, at common food, and spurn All drink but honey mingled with Falern. The butler has gone out: the stormy sea Preserves its fishes safe from you and me: No matter: salt ad libitum, with bread Will soothe the Cerberus of our maws instead. What gives you appetite? 'tis not the meat Contains the relish: 'tis in you that eat. Get condiments by work: for when the skin Is pale and bloated from disease within, Not golden plover, oyster, nor sardine, Can make the edge of dulled enjoyment keen. Yet there's one prejudice I sorely doubt If force of reason ever will root out: Oft as a peacock's set before you, still Prefer it to a fowl you must and will, Because (as if that mattered when we dine!) The bird is costly, and its tail's so fine. What? do you eat the feathers? when'tis drest And sent to table, does it still look best? While, as to flesh, the two are on a par: Yes, you're the dupe of mere outside, you are. You see that pike: what is it tells you straight Where those wide jaws first opened for the bait, In sea or river? 'twixt the bridges twain, Or at the mouth where Tiber joins the main? A three-pound mullet you must needs admire, And yet you know 'tis never served entire. The size attracts you: well then, why dislike The selfsame quality when found in pike? Why, but to fly in Nature's face for spite. Because she made these heavy those weigh light? O, when the stomach's pricked by hunger's stings, We seldom hear of scorn for common things!

"Great fishes on great dishes! how I gloat Upon the sight!" exclaims some harpy-throat. Blow strongly, blow, good Auster, and ferment The glutton's dainties, and increase their scent! And yet, without such aid, they find the flesh Of boar and turbot nauseous, e'en though fresh, When, gorged to sick repletion, they request Onions or radishes to give them zest. Nay, e'en at royal banquets poor men's fare Yet lingers: eggs and olives still are there. When, years ago, Gallonius entertained His friends with sturgeon, an ill name he gained. Were turbots then less common in the seas? No: but good living waxes by degrees. Safe was the turbot, safe the stork's young brood, Until a praetor taught us they were good. So now, should some potential voice proclaim That roasted cormorants are delicious game, The youth of Rome (there's nothing too absurd For their weak heads) will take him at his word.

But here Ofellus draws a line, between A life that's frugal and a life that's mean: For 'tis in vain that luxury you shun, If straight on avarice your bark you run. Avidienus--you may know him--who Was always call'd the Dog, and rightly too, On olives five-year-old is wont to dine, And, till 'tis sour, will never broach his wine: Oft as, attired for feasting, blithe and gay, He keeps some birthday, wedding, holiday, From his big horn he sprinkles drop by drop Oil on the cabbages himself:--you'd stop Your nose to smell it:--vinegar, I own, He gives you without stint, and that alone. Well, betwixt these, what should a wise man do? Which should he copy, think you, of the two? 'Tis Scylla and Charybdis, rock and gulf: On this side howls the dog, on that the wolf. A man that's neat in table, as in dress, Errs not by meanness, yet avoids excess; Nor, like Albucius, when he plays the host, Storms at his slaves, while giving each his post; Nor, like poor Naevius, carelessly offends By serving greasy water to his friends.

Now listen for a space, while I declare The good results that spring from frugal fare. IMPRIMIS, health: for 'tis not hard to see How various meats are like to disagree, If you remember with how light a weight Your last plain meal upon your stomach sate: Now, when you've taken toll of every dish, Have mingled roast with boiled and fowl with fish, The mass of dainties, turbulent and crude, Engenders bile, and stirs intestine feud. Observe your guests, how ghastly pale their looks When they've discussed some mystery of your cook's: Ay, and the body, clogged with the excess Of yesterday, drags down the mind no less, And fastens to the ground in living death That fiery particle of heaven's own breath. Another takes brief supper, seeks repair From kindly sleep, then rises light as air: Not that sometimes he will not cross the line, And, just for once, luxuriously dine, When feasts come round with the revolving year, Or his shrunk frame suggests more generous cheer: Then too, when age draws on and life is slack, He has reserves on which he can fall back: But what have you in store when strength shall fail, You, who forestall your goods when young and hale?

A rancid boar our fathers used to praise: What? had they then no noses in those days? No: but they wished their friends to have the treat When tainted rather than themselves when sweet. O had I lived in that brave time of old, When men were heroes, and the age was gold!

Come now, you set some store by good repute: In truth, its voice is softer than a lute: Then know, great fishes on great dishes still Produce great scandal, let alone the bill. Think too of angry uncles, friends grown rude, Nay, your own self with your own self at feud And longing for a rope to end your pain: But ropes cost twopence; so you long in vain. "O, talk," you say, "to Trausius: though severe, Such truths as these are just what HE should hear: But I have untold property, that brings A yearly sum, sufficient for three kings." Untold indeed! then can you not expend Your superflux on some diviner end? Why does one good man want while you abound? Why are Jove's temples tumbling to the ground? O selfish! what? devote no modicum To your dear country from so vast a sum? Ay, you're the man: the world will go your way.... O how your foes will laugh at you one day! Take measure of the future: which will feel More confidence in self, come woe, come weal, He that, like you, by long indulgence plants In body and in mind a thousand wants, Or he who, wise and frugal, lays in stores In view of war ere war is at the doors?

But, should you doubt what good Ofellus says, When young I knew him, in his wealthier days: Then, when his means were fair, he spent and spared Nor more nor less than now, when they're impaired. Still, in the field once his, but now assigned To an intruding veteran, you may find, His sons and beasts about him, the good sire, A sturdy farmer, working on for hire. "I ne'er exceeded"--so you'll hear him say-- "Herbs and smoked gammon on a working day; But if at last a friend I entertained, Or there dropped in some neighbour while it rained, I got no fish from town to grace my board, But dined off kid and chicken like a lord: Raisins and nuts the second course supplied, With a split fig, first doubled and then dried: Then each against the other, with a fine To do the chairman's work, we drank our wine, And draughts to Ceres, so she'd top the ground With good tall ears, our frets and worries drowned Let Fortune brew fresh tempests, if she please, How much can she knock off from joys like these! Have you or I, young fellows, looked more lean Since this new holder came upon the scene? Holder, I say, for tenancy's the most That he, or I, or any man can boast: Now he has driven us out: but him no less His own extravagance may dispossess Or slippery lawsuit: in the last resort A livelier heir will cut his tenure short. Ofellus' name it bore, the field we plough, A few years back: it bears Umbrenus' now: None has it as a fixture, fast and firm, But he or I may hold it for a term. Then live like men of courage, and oppose Stout hearts to this and each ill wind that blows."

SATIRE III.

SIC RARO SCRIBIS.

DAMASIPPUS. HORACE.

DAMASIPPUS.

So seldom do you write, we scarcely hear Your tablets called for four times in the year: And even then, as fast as you compose, You quarrel with the thing, and out it goes, Vexed that, in spite of bottle and of bed, You turn out nothing worthy to be read. How is it all to end? Here you've come down, Avoiding a December spent in town: Your brains are clear: begin, and charm our ears With something worth your boasting.--Nought appears. You blame your pens, and the poor wall, accurst From birth by gods and poets, comes off worst. Yet you looked bold, and talked of what you'd do, Could you lie snug for one free day or two. What boot Menander, Plato, and the rest You carried down from town to stock your nest? Think you by turning lazy to exempt Your life from envy? No, you'll earn contempt. Then stop your ears to sloth's enchanting voice, Or give up your best hopes: there lies your choice.

H. Good Damasippus, may the immortals grant, For your sage counsel, the one thing you want, A barber! but pray tell me how yon came To know so well what scarce is known to fame?

D. Why, ever since my hapless all went down 'Neath the mid arch, I go about the town, And make my neighbours' matters my sole care, Seeing my own are damaged past repair. Once I was anxious on a bronze to light Where Sisyphus had washed his feet at night; Each work of art I criticized and classed, Called this ill chiselled, that too roughly cast; Prized that at fifty thousand: then I knew To buy at profit grounds and houses too, With a sure instinct: till the whole town o'er "The pet of Mercury" was the name I bore.

H. I know your case, and am surprised to see So clear a cure of such a malady.

D, Ay, but my old complaint (though strange, 'tis true) Was banished from my system by a new: Just as diseases of the side or head My to the stomach or the chest instead, Like your lethargic patient, when he tears Himself from bed, and at the doctor squares.

H. Spare me but that, I'll trust you.

D. Don't be blind; You're mad yourself, and so are all mankind, If truth is in Stertinius, from whose speech I learned the precious lessons that I teach, What time he bade me grow a wise man's beard, And sent me from the bridge, consoled and cheered. For once, when, bankrupt and forlorn, I stood With muffled head, just plunging in the flood, "Don't do yourself a mischief," so he cried In friendly tones, appearing at my side: "'Tis all false shame: you fear to be thought mad, Not knowing that the world are just as bad. What constitutes a madman? if 'tis shown The marks are found in you and you alone, Trust me, I'll add no word to thwart your plan, But leave you free to perish like a man. The wight who drives through life with bandaged eyes, Ignorant of truth and credulous of lies, He in the judgment of Chrysippus' school And the whole porch is tabled as a fool. Monarchs and people, every rank and age, That sweeping clause includes,--except the sage.

"Now listen while I show you, how the rest Who call you madman, are themselves possessed. Just as in woods, when travellers step aside From the true path for want of some good guide, This to the right, that to the left hand strays, And all are wrong, but wrong in different ways, So, though you're mad, yet he who banters you Is not more wise, but wears his pigtail too. One class of fools sees reason for alarm In trivial matters, innocent of harm: Stroll in the open plain, you'll hear them talk Of fires, rocks, torrents, that obstruct their walk: Another, unlike these, but not more sane, Takes fires and torrents for the open plain: Let mother, sister, father, wife combined Cry 'There's a pitfall! there's a rock! pray mind!' They'll hear no more than drunken Fufius, he Who slept the part of queen Ilione, While Catienus, shouting in his ear, Roared like a Stentor, 'Hearken, mother dear!'

"Well, now, I'll prove the mass of humankind Have judgments just as jaundiced, just as blind. That Damasippus shows himself insane By buying ancient statues, all think plain: But he that lends him money, is he free From the same charge? 'O, surely.' Let us see. I bid you take a sum you won't return: You take it: is this madness, I would learn? Were it not greater madness to renounce The prey that Mercury puts within your pounce? Secure him with ten bonds; a hundred; nay, Clap on a thousand; still he'll slip away, This Protean scoundrel: drag him into court, You'll only find yourself the more his sport: He'll laugh till scarce you'd think his jaws his own, And turn to boar or bird, to tree or stone. If prudence in affairs denotes men sane And bungling argues a disordered brain, The man who lends the cash is far more fond Than you, who at his bidding sign the bond.

"Now give attention and your gowns refold, Who thirst for fame, grow yellow after gold, Victims to luxury, superstition blind, Or other ailment natural to the mind: Come close to me and listen, while I teach That you're a pack of madmen, all and each.

"Of all the hellebore that nature breeds, The largest share by far the miser needs: In fact, I know not but Anticyra's juice Was all intended for his single use. When old Staberius died, his heirs engraved Upon his monument the sum he'd saved: For, had they failed to do it, they were tied A hundred pair of fencers to provide, A feast at Arrius' pleasure, not too cheap, And corn, as much as Afric's farmers reap. 'I may be right, I may be wrong,' said he, 'Who cares? 'tis not for you to lecture me.' Well, one who knew Staberius would suppose He was a man that looked beyond his nose: Why did he wish, then, that his funeral stone Should make the sum he left behind him known? Why, while he lived, he dreaded nothing more Than that great sin, the sin of being poor, And, had he left one farthing less in purse, The man, as man, had thought himself the worse: For all things human and divine, renown, Honour, and worth at money's shrine bow down: And he who has made money, fool or knave, Becomes that moment noble, just, and brave. A sage, you ask me? yes, a sage, a king, Whate'er he chooses; briefly, everything. So good Staberius hoped each extra pound His virtue saved would to his praise redound. Now look at Aristippus, who, in haste To make his journey through the Libyan waste, Bade the stout slaves who bore his treasure throw Their load away, because it made them slow. Which was more mad? Excuse me: 'twill not do To shut one question up by opening two.

"If one buys fiddles, hoards them up when bought, Though music's study ne'er engaged his thought, One lasts and awls, unversed in cobbler's craft, One sails for ships, not knowing fore from aft, You'd call them mad: but tell me, if you please, How that man's case is different from these, Who, as he gets it, stows away his gain, And thinks to touch a farthing were profane? Yet if a man beside a huge corn-heap Lies watching with a cudgel, ne'er asleep, And dares not touch one grain, but makes his meat Of bitter leaves, as though he found them sweet: If, with a thousand wine-casks--call the hoard A million rather--in his cellars stored, He drinks sharp vinegar: nay, if, when nigh A century old, on straw he yet will lie, While in his chest rich coverlets, the prey Of moth and canker, moulder and decay, Few men can see much madness in his whim, Because the mass of mortals ail like him.

"O heaven-abandoned wretch! is all this care To save your stores for some degenerate heir, A son, or e'en a freedman, who will pour All down his throttle, ere a year is o'er? You fear to come to want yourself, you say? Come, calculate how small the loss per day, If henceforth to your cabbage you allow And your own head the oil you grudge them now. If anything's sufficient, why forswear, Embezzle, swindle, pilfer everywhere? Can you be sane? suppose you choose to throw Stones at the crowd, as by your door they go, Or at the slaves, your chattels, every lad And every girl will hoot yon down as mad: When with a rope you kill your wife, with bane Your aged mother, are you right in brain? Why not? Orestes did it with the blade, And 'twas in Argos that the scene was laid. Think you that madness only then begun To seize him, when the impious deed was done, And not that Furies spurred him on, before The sword grew purple with a parent's gore? Nay, from the time they reckon him insane, He did no deed of which you could complain: No stroke this madman at Electra aims Or Pylades: he only calls them names, Fury or other monster, in the style Which people use when stirred by tragic bile.

"Opimius, who, with gold and silver store Lodged in his coffers, ne'ertheless was poor (The man would drink from earthen nipperkin Flat wine on working-days, on feast-days thin), Once fell into a lethargy so deep That his next heir supposed it more than sleep, And entering on possession at his ease, Went round the coffers and applied the keys. The doctor had a conscience and a head: He had a table moved beside the bed, Poured out a money-bag, and bade men come And ring the coin and reckon o'er the sum: Then, lifting up his patient, he began: 'That heir of yours is plundering you, good man. 'What? while I live?' 'You wish to live? then take The necessary steps: be wide awake.' 'What steps d'ye mean?' 'Your strength will soon run short, Unless your stomach have some strong support. Come, rouse yourself: take this ptisane of rice.' 'The price?' 'A trifle.' 'I will know the price.' 'Eight-pence.' 'O dear! what matters it if I Die by disease or robbery? still I die.' "'Who then is sane?' He that's no fool, in troth. 'Then what's a miser?' Fool and madman both. '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 replies, 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 By 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, 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 head 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 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 the 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.

THE EPISTLES.

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