FLORUS, I long to know where Claudius leads
The distant rage of war; whether he spreads His conquering banners o'er the Thracian plains, Or near the Heber, bound in snowy chains. Or does the Hellespont's high-tower'd sea, Or Asia's fertile soil, his course delay? What works of genius do the youth prepare, Who guard his sacred person? Who shall dare To sing great Cæsar's wars, immortal theme! And give his peaceful honours down to fame? How fares my Titius? Say, when he intends To publish? Does he not forget his friends? He, who disdains the springs of common fame, And dauntless quaffs the deep Pindaric stream. But will the Muse her favourite bard inspire, To tune to Theban sounds the Roman lyre? Or with the transports of theatric rage, And its sonorous language, shake the stage? Let Celsus be admonish'd, o'er and o'er, To search the treasures of his native store, Nor touch what Phoebus consecrates to Fame; Lest, when the birds their various plumage claim, Stripp'd of his stolen pride, the crow forlorn Should stand the laughter of the public scorn. What do you dare, who float with active wing Around the thymy fragrance of the spring? Not yours the genius of a lowly strain, Nor of uncultur'd or unpolish'd vein, Whether you plead with eloquence his cause; Or to your client clear the doubtful laws; And sure to gain, for amatorious lays, The wreaths of ivy, with unenvied praise. Could you the passions, in their rage, controul, That damp the nobler purpose of the soul:
Could you these soothing discontents allay,
Soon should you rise where wisdom points the way;
Wisdom heaven-born, at which we all should aim,
The little vulgar, and the known to fame,
Who mean to live, within our proper sphere,
Dear to ourselves, and to our country dear.
Now tell me, whether Plancus holds a part (For sure he well deserves it) in your heart? Or was the reconciliation made in vain,
And like an ill-cur'd wound breaks forth again,
While inexperienc'd youth, and blood inflain'd,
Drive ye like coursers to the yoke untam'd?
Where'er ye are, too excellent to prove
The broken union of fraternal love,
A votive heifer gratefully I feed,
For your return, in sacrifice to bleed.
ALBIUS, in whom my satires find
A candid critic, and a kind,
Do you, while at your country-seat,
Some rhiming labours meditate,
That shall in volum❜d bulk arise,
And even from Cassius bear the prize;
Or saunter through the silent wood,
Musing on what befits the wise and good?
Thou art not form'd of lifeless mould,
With breast inanimate and cold;
To thee the gods a form complete,
To thee the gods a fair estate
In bounty gave, with art to know
How to enjoy what they bestow.
Can a fond nurse one blessing more
Even for her favourite boy implore,
With sense and clear expression blest,
Of friendship, honour, health possest,
A table elegantly plain,
And a poetic, easy vein?
By hope inspir'd, deprest with fear, By passion warm'd, perplex'd with care, Believe that every morning's ray Hath lighted up thy latest day; Then, if to-morrow's sun be thine, With double lustre shall it shine.
Such are the maxims I embrace, And here, in sleek and joyous case, You'll find, for laughter fitly bred, A hog by Epicurus fed.
IF, my Torquatus, you can kindly deign
To lie on beds of simple form and plain,
And sup on herbs alone, but richly drest,
At evening I expect you for my guest.
Nor old, I own, nor excellent my wine,
Of five years vintage, and a marshy vine;
If you have better, bring th' enlivening cheer,
Or, from an humble friend, this summons bear.
In hopes my honour'd guest to entertain,
My fires are lighted, my apartments clean;
Then leave the hope, that, wing'd with folly, flies;
Leave the mean quarrels, that from wealth arise;
Leave the litigious bar, for Cæsar's birth
Proclaims the festal hour of ease and mirth,
While social converse, till the rising light,
Shall stretch, beyond its length, the summer's night.
Say, what are fortune's gifts, if I'm denied
Their cheerful use? for nearly are allied
The madman, and the fool, whose sordid care
Makes himself poor to enrich a worthless heir.
Give me to drink, and, crown'd with flowers, despise
The grave disgrace of being thought unwise.
What cannot wine perform? It brings to light
The secret soul; it bids the coward fight;
Gives being to our hopes, and from our hearts
Drives the dull sorrow, and inspires new arts.
Is there a wretch, whom bumpers have not taught
A flow of words, and loftiness of thought?
Even in th' oppressive grasp of poverty
It can enlarge, and bid the soul be free.
Cheerful my usual task I undertake
(And no mean figure in my office make),
That no foul linen wrinkle up the nose;
That every plate with bright reflexion shows
My guest his face; that none, when life grows gay,
The sacred hour of confidence betray.
That all in equal friendship may unite,
Your Butra and Septicius I'll invite,
And, if he's not engag'd to better cheer,
Or a kind girl, Sabinus shall be here.
Still there is room, and yet the summer's heat
May prove offensive, if the crowd be great:
But write me word, how many you desire,
Then instant from the busy world retire;
And while your tedious clients fill the hall,
Slip out at the back-door, and bilk them all.
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