To stout Coranus, who shall slily smoke
The harpy's aim, and turn it to a joke.
The son-in-law shall gravely give the sire
His witness'd will, and presently desire
That he would read it: coyly he complies,
And silent cons it with attentive eyes,
But finds, alas! to him and his forlorn
No legacy bequeath'd-except to mourn.
Add to these precepts, if a crafty lass,
Or freed-man, manage a delirious ass,
Be their ally; their faith applaud, that you,
When absent, may receive as much in lieu;
'Tis good to take these out-works to his pelf,
But best to storm the citadel itself.
Writes he vile verses in a frantic vein?
Augment his madness, and approve the strain:
Prevent his asking, if he loves a wench,
And let your wife his nobler passion quench.
Ulysses.
Can you suppose, a dame so chaste, so pure,
Could e'er be tempted to the guilty lure,
Whom all the suitors amorously strove,
In vain, to stagger in her plighted love?
Tiresias.
The youth too sparing of their presents came;
They lov'd the banquet, rather than the damne;
And thus your prudent, honourable spouse,
It seems, was faithful to her nuptial vows.
But had she once indulg'd the dotard's glee,
Smack'd her old cull, and shar'd the spoil with thee,
She never after could be terrified,
Sagacious beagle, from the reeking hide.
I'll tell a tale, well worthy to be told,
A fact that happen'd, and I then was old:
An hag at Thebes, a wicked one no doubt,
Was thus, according to her will, lugg'd out,
Stiff to the pile. Upon his naked back
Her heir sustain'd the well-anointed pack.
She, likely, took this crotchet in her head,
That she might slip, if possible, when dead,
From him, who, trudging through a filthy road,
Had stuck too closely to the living load.
Be cautious therefore, and advance with art, Nor sink beneath, nor over-act your part. A noisy fellow must of course offend The surly temper of a sullen friend: Yet be not mute-like Davus in the play With head inclin'd, his awful nod obey, Creep into favour: if a ruder gale
Assault his face, admonish him to veil
His precious pate. Oppose your shoulders, proud
To disengage him from the bustling crowd.
If he loves prating, hang an ear: should lust
Of empty glory be the blockhead's gust,
Indulge his eager appetite, and puff
The growing bladder with inspiring stuff,
Till he, with hands uplifted to the skies,
Enough! enough! in glutted rapture cries.
When he shall free you from your servile fear,
And tedious toil; when broad awake, you hear:
"To good Ulysses, my right trusty slave,,
A fourth division of my lands I leave:"
Is then (as void of consolation, roar)
My dearest friend, my Dama now no more?
Where shall I find another man so just,
Firm in his love, and faithful to his trust?
Squeeze out some tears: 'tis fit in such a case
To cloak your joys beneath a mournful face.
Though left to your discretionary care,
Erect a tomb magnificently fair,
And let your neighbours, to proclaim abroad
Your fame, the pompous funeral applaud.
If any vassal of the will-compeers,
With asthma gasping, and advanc'd in years,
Should be dispos'd to purchase house or land,
Tell him that he may readily command
Whatever may to your proportion come,
And for the value, let him name the sum-
But I am summon'd by the queen of hell
Back to the shades. Live artful, and farewell.
OFTEN wish'd I had a farm,
A decent dwelling snug and warm,
A garden, and a spring as pure
As crystal running by my door,
Besides a little ancient grove,
Where at my leisure I might rove.
The gracious gods, to crown my bliss,
Have granted this, and more than this;
I have enough in my possessing;
'Tis well I ask no greater blessing,
O Hermes! than remote from strife
To have and hold them for my life.
If I was never known to raise
My fortune by dishonest ways,
Nor, like the spendthrifts of the times,
Shall ever sink it by my crimes:
If thus I neither pray nor ponder-
Oh! might I have that angle yonder,
Which disproportions now my field,
What satisfaction it would yield!
O that some lucky chance but threw
A pot of silver in my view,
As lately to the man, who bought
The very land in which he wrought!
If I am pleas'd with my condition,
O hear, and grant this last petition:
Indulgent, let my cattle batten,
Let all things, but my fancy, fatten,
And thou continue still to guard,
As thou art wont, thy suppliant bard.
Whenever therefore I retreat
From Rome into my Sabine seat,
By mountains fenc'd on either side,
And in my castle fortified,
What can I write with greater pleasure,
Than satires in familiar measure?
Nor mad ambition there destroys,
Nor sickly wind my health annoys;
Nor noxious autumn gives me pain,
The ruthless undertaker's gain.
Whatever title please thine ear,
Father of morning, Janus, hear,
Since mortal men, by heaven's decree,
Commence their toils, imploring thee,
Director of the busy throng,
Be thou the prelude of my song.
At Rome, you press me: "Without fail
A friend expects you for his bail;
Be nimble to perform your part,
Lest any rival get the start.
Though rapid Boreas sweep the ground,
Or winter in a narrower round
Contract the day, through storm and snow,
At all adventures you must go."
When bound beyond equivocation,
Or any mental reservation,
By all the ties of legal traps,
And to my ruin, too, perhaps,
I still must bustle through the crowd,
And press the tardy; when aloud
A foul-mouth'd fellow reimburses
This usage with a peal of curses.
"What madness hath possess'd thy pate
To justle folk at such a rate,
When puffing through the streets you scour
To meet Mæcenas at an hour?"
This pleases me, to tell the truth,
And is as honey to my tooth.
Yet when I reach th' Esquilian Hill
(That deathful scene, and gloomy still),
A thousand busy cares surround me,
Distract my senses, and confound me.
"Roscius entreated you to meet
At court to-morrow before eight-
The secretaries have implor'd
Your presence at their council-board-
Pray, take this patent, and prevail
Upon your friend to fix the seal-"
Sir, I shall try-replies the man,
More urgent: "If you please you can-"
'Tis more than seven years complete,
It hardly wants a month of eight,
Since great Maecenas' favour grac'd me,
Since first among his friends he plac'd me,
Sometimes to carry in his chair,
A mile or two, to take the air,
And might entrust with idle chat,
Discoursing upon this or that,
As in a free familiar way,
"How, tell me, Horace, goes the day?
Think you the Thracian can engage
The Syrian Hector of the stage?
This morning air is very bad
For folks who are but thinly clad."
Our conversation chiefly dwells
On these, and such like bagatelles,
As might the veriest prattler hear,
Or be repos'd in leaky ear.
Yet every day, and every hour,
I'm more enslav'd to envy's power.
"Our son of fortune (with a pox)
Sate with Maecenas in the box,
Just by the stage: you might remark,
They play'd together in the park."
Should any rumour, without head
Or tail, about the streets be spread,
Whoever meets me gravely nods,
And says, "As you approach the gods,
It is no mystery to you,
What do the Dacians mean to do?"
Indeed I know not-" How you joke,
And love to sneer at simple folk!"
Then vengeance seize this head of mine,
If I have heard or can divine-
"Yet, prithee, where are Cæsar's bands
Allotted their debenture-lands?
Although I swear I know no more
Of that than what they ask'd before,
They stand amaz'd, and think me grown
The closest mortal ever known.
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