XXIII.

Needy Furius, house nor hoard possessing, Bug or spider, or any fire to thaw you, Yet most blest in a father and a step-dame, Each for penury fit to tooth a flint-stone: Is not happiness yours? a home united? 5 Son, sire, mother, a lathy dame to match him.

Who can wonder? in all is health, digestion, Pure and vigorous, hours without a trouble. Fires ye fear not, or house's heavy downfal, Deeds unnatural, art in act to poison, 10 Dangers myriad accidents befalling.

Then your bodies? in every limb a shrivell'd Horn, all dryness in all the world whatever, Tann'd or frozen or icy-lean with ages. Sure superlative happiness surrounds thee. 15 Thee sweat frets not, an o'er-saliva frets not, Frets not snivel or oozy rheumy nostril.

Yet such purity lacks not e'en a purer. White those haunches as any cleanly-silver'd Salt, it takes you a month to barely dirt them. 20 Then like beans, or inert as e'er a pebble, Those impeccable heavy loins, a finger's Breadth from apathy ne'er seduced to riot.

Such prosperity, such superb profusion, Slight not, Furius, idly nor reject not. 25 As for sesterces, all the would-be fortune, Cease to wish it; enough, methinks, the present.