The Works of Horace In English Verse :: :: University of Virginia Library

Davus.
I long in Silence have your Orders heard;
Wishing to speak my Thoughts; but as your Slave
That Freedom dare not take.

Horace.
Say, who is there?
Davus? Is't you?

Davus.
The same: True to my Lord:
Though wise enough, yet not to that Degree,
As to be early snatch'd by envious Death.
This is the Saturnalian Feast.

267

Horace.
'Tis true.
Speak freely then: So have our Sires ordain'd.

Davus.

Some steadily pursue the Course of Vice.
Others float to-and-fro, as Whim prevails;
To Virtue now, and now to Vice inclin'd.
Three Rings would Priscus on his left Hand wear
One Day; the next was seen with none; his Robe
Would often quit, and wear a mean Disguise;
This Day would in a Palace dwell; the next
In a poor Hutt, from whence a cleanly Slave
Would blush to issue; now he with the Learn'd
Would live at Athens; now with Whores at Rome.
His every Change the mere Effect of Whim.

The Gamester Volanerius, when the Gout
His knotted Joints had justly crippled, hir'd
A Boy, to gather up, and throw the Dice;
Yet still less wretched than the motley Man,
Whose Passions were at Variance; since the last
Gave up the Reins to Vice without Remorse.

Horace.
To whom this idle Stuff dost thou apply?

268

Davus.
To You.

Horace.
To Me, vile Rascal! Make it out.

Davus.

Though highly you extoll the frugal Fare
And simple Manners of our Ancestors;
Yet if some God should take you at your Word,
You would decline the Gift you had desir'd;
Either because your Heart is insincere,
Or that you have not Honesty enough
To chuse the Part you know is right and good;
Unable from the Mire to pluck your Foot.
When in the Country, you applaud the Town;
When in the Town, are charm'd with rural Joys;
Inconstant you, when uninvited, praise
Your wholesome Herbs, and bless your happy Stars,
That you are not oblig'd to drink; as if
You never supp'd abroad, but by Constraint.
But should Mæcenas call you to a Feast
At the Decline of Day, the whole House rings
With your wild Rage. ‘Bring me the Essence, Boy.
‘Does no-one hear? The Slaves are, sure, asleep.’

269

Mulvius and other Drolls, who had been ask'd
To sup with you, retire with many a Curse,
Which I, your humble Slave, dare not repeat.
Perhaps to Me it will be said; ‘You scent
‘A savoury Dish with Nose erect; indulge
‘Your Appetite; are slothful; and neglect
‘Your Master's Business; are too fond of Play;
‘You haunt the Tavern; and are often drunk.’
All this I own with Shame, and guilty plead.
But what if my Accuser should be found
Obnoxious to the same, or greater Faults,
(Though varnish'd and disguis'd with specious Names),
Than those with which he loads unhappy Davus,
His Slave, whom for a paltry Sum he bought?
If this should be the Case, can he, with Justice,
Punish a Man less wicked than himself?
—Nay, cease to fright me with that frowning Brow;
With-hold your Hand, and curb your swelling Rage,
While simply I relate the wholesome Truths
Which from Crispinus' Porter I have glean'd.

Your Neighbour's Wife charms you; a Whore your Slave.

270

Whose Crime deserves the greater Punishment?
Soon as my Flame is quench'd, I go content.
I have no Character to lose; nor fear
To be supplanted by a richer Rival.
But You, when throwing off the Roman Dress,
Your purple Robe and Rings, you meanly stoop,
To veil beneath a Cap your essenc'd Hair,
And muffle in a tatter'd Cloak your Face,
To seek some marry'd Dame, whose Room you enter
With trembling Joints, perplex'd with Hope and Fear;
Then are not you the Man, whose Garb you wear?
See now, the sordid Slave belies the Judge!
For what's the Difference, if you mount the Stage,
There to be cut and slash'd, and kill'd for Pay;
Or, driv'n by lordly Lust, expose your Limbs,
To bear the Penalties and torturing Pains,
An injur'd Husband may by Law inflict?
Though both are guilty, yet the Tempter, Man,
Calls for severest Vengeance on his Head.
To Him, provok'd, You bind yourself the Slave,
Forfeit your Fame, your Fortune, and your Life!
But what if you escape? Let us suppose
Her conscious Maid has pent you in a Chest,

271

Stifled; with Neck and Heels together join'd.
Now you'll be warn'd; nor try the Waves again,
Safe on the Shore: Experience makes us wise.
Alas! in spite of Warning, you proceed,
And run the Course of Vice, till, caught at last,
You grievously will rue your dear-bought Joys.
Thou oft-returning Slave! what savage Beast,
That once has broke his Chain, again will take it?

But if you should evade the Charge, and say,
‘I am not an Adulterer:’ I reply,
That ‘Davus is no Thief, since, wisely, He
‘Embezzles not your Goods, nor steals your Plate.’
But lay aside the Laws; and Nature then
Uncurb'd will soon rush forth with boundless Rage.
Can you be Lord to Me, yourself who serve
So many various Things and various Lords?
Three or four Touches of the Prætor's Rod
Can set me free: What Power can chase from you
The conscious Worm, that ever gnaws within?

Still add another weighty Circumstance;
If, as the Custom is among the Romans,
There is a Master-Slave, who rules the rest,

272

And yet himself is subject to his Lord,
What then are You to Me?—That Master-Slave:
You govern me indeed, but are yourself
The plyant Dupe of every Tyrant Lust;
A very Puppet, mov'd with Springs and Wires!

Horace.
Who then is free?

Davus.

The Wise; for he maintains
An Empire o'er himself; whom neither Want,
Nor Chains, nor Death affright; brave to subdue
Rebellious Lusts; and vain Ambition spurn:
Whose Happiness depends but on his Mind;
Collected in himself; polish'd and round;
Whom Fortune's Arrows ever strike in vain.

Examine well this Picture: See! if there
You can discern one Feature of your own.

Your Wench demands five Talents, and torments you;
She turns you out, and on your Shoulders pours
A full-charg'd Jordan's Freight; and mildly then
Calls you again. Assert your Freedom now,
And loose your Neck from this base Bondage. No.

273

Your Lord, with Rage relentless, drives you on;
And, if you loiter, galls you with his Spur.

Or, when with Rapture you a Picture view,
By Pausias drawn, are you less blameable
Than me; who, staring in the Street, admire
A Sign, with Coal or Oker rudely sketch'd,
Where Gladiators give and parry Blows,
With Ham out-stretch'd, in fencing Posture drawn.
But Davus is a Dolt, a lazy Knave;
And you a Man of Taste, a Connoisseur,
Who can distinguish old from modern Works.

If I am tempted by a smoking Pye,
No Name is hard enough for Me; but You
The Force of all Temptation can resist,
And never will regale at stately Feasts;
So great your Mind! your Virtue so precise!—

If, haply, I transgress, and gormandize
My Punishment is Stripes: And what is yours?
Your Luxury will cost more dear than mine.
The Price of frequent Feasts are Qualms and Loathing.
The Dropsy and the Gout bring up the Rear;
Nor can the tottering Legs support their Load.
Say, does the Boy, who steals at Dusk of Eve,

274

A Curry-comb, to buy a Bunch of Grapes,
Deserve the Lash? Then what does he deserve,
His Land who mortgages, and sells his Farm,
To pamper and indulge his Appetite?

Add, that you know not how t'improve your Time;
Nor can employ a single Hour alone:
Unsatisfy'd, from Place to Place you rove;
Seeking, by Wine or Sleep, to banish Care:
In vain; for Care pursues, where-e'er you fly.

Horace.
Give me a Stone!—

Davus.
At whom to throw it, Sir?

Horace.
A Club, or Sword!

Davus.
Hark! hark! my Master raves;
Or is repeating Verse!

Horace.
Fly, Rascal, fly!
Or I will send thee to my Sabine Farm,
And to eight whoreson Lubbers add a ninth!