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

Horace excuses himself for not having waited on Mæcenas according to his Promise, and gratefully thanks him for all Favours; but at the same Time declares, with the Frankness becoming an honest Man, that he would rather part with any thing than his Liberty.

Five Days, I told you, I from Town should stay;
All August long I faithless keep away:
But, if you wish me well, I sure shall gain
The same Indulgence, striving to retain
My Health, as wanting Health; while now the Heats
And Fruits autumnal crowd the gloomy Streets
With many a funeral Pomp; and for his Heir
Each Parent trembles; and too anxious Care,
Or close Attendance in the Forum, fills
The Blood with feverish Fire, and opens Wills.

373

But when stern Winter o'er the Alban Plain
Shall spread his snowy Mantle, to the Main
Your Poet must descend, and there comply
With Health's Demand, and study sparingly.
Till, with your Leave, to You he flies in Spring,
On the first Swallow's, or the Zephyr's Wing.

Rich have you made me; not the awkward Way
Calabrians give their Pears: ‘Eat, Sir, I pray.’
“Enough, I thank you.” ‘Take whate'er you will,
‘And for your pretty Boys your Pockets fill.’
“As much, as for 'em all, my Thanks receive.”
‘Nay, what are left we to the Hogs shall give.’

Spendthrifts and Fools present what they despise;
But Obligations thence can never rise.
True Wisdom with a cautious Hand bestows
Her valued Gifts; for Gold from Dross she knows
I of your Bounty a just Sense retain;
But, if with you I always must remain,
Return my sprightly Health, the youthful Grace
Of jetty Locks; return my jovial Face,
And all my Jokes and Laughs, and every Sigh
Breath'd, 'midst our Mirth, for Cynara's Cruelty.

374

A Mouse, half-famish'd, through a narrow Hole
Into a Granary with Rapture stole;
At last, well-fill'd, he strove, but strove in vain,
To squeeze his pamper'd Carcass out again.
When thus a Weasel: ‘If you ever mean
‘T'escape, return, as erst you enter'd, lean.’
If this suits me, your Favours I resign:
Nor, cloy'd with luscious Dainties, do I pine
For a plain Meal; nor could Arabia buy,
With all her Wealth, my peerless Liberty.
You oft my easy Temper praise. I own,
Absent or present, you to me have shown
A Prince's Bounty, and a Parent's Love.
Can I then spurn your Gifts, or thankless prove?
Wise, like his Sire, Telemachus reply'd,
‘In barren Ithaca we cannot ride,
‘So rocky is the Ground, the Fields so few:
‘Take back your Steeds, Atrides; they to You
‘Are better suited.’—Humble Minds approve
An humble Station. Thus from Rome I rove
To soft Tarentum's Vale, or Tibur's Grove.

As Philip, by his Pleadings known to Fame,
Bold as in War, at two from Business came,

375

And, now grown old, complain'd the Forum lay
Too distant from his House, old Stories say,
A Stranger in a Barber's Shop he spy'd
Paring his Nails. ‘Demetrius, haste,’ he cry'd,
‘Haste, and his State, his Family enquire;
‘Ask who his Patron is, and who his Sire.’
The Boy his Master's Orders well obeys;
He goes, and soon returns. “His Name, he says,
“Is Menas; he enjoys a Cryer's Place;
“Small is his Income; but without Disgrace
“He lives; each Day he hurries up and down,
“And trades in every Quarter of the Town.
“Fix'd are his Lodgings; few he calls his Friends,
“And Pastimes he partakes, when Business ends.
“I from himself would this Account receive:
“Bid him to Supper.” Menas can't believe,
But wonders with himself. At last, he cry'd,
“Your Master is too courteous.” ‘What! deny'd
‘The Slave to come?’ “He did. Your Words create
“No Passion in him, but Contempt or Hate.”

Philip next Day observ'd this careless Cryer
Selling small Wares, and clad in mean Attire;

376

And first accosts him. He Excuses made
Of the Confinement and Fatigue of Trade
For staying from his House; and, last, for Want
Of due Respect.’ ‘Your Pardon I will grant
‘Freely,’ says Philip, ‘sup with me to-day.’
“Just as you please.” ‘At four then come away.
‘In the mean time your Business exercise.’
At Supper while he sits, without Disguise
Bluntly he talks, no matter Wrong or Right,
Nor rises from the Feast till late at Night.
Now lavish of his Visits, soon and late,
He nibbles, like a Trout, the treacherous Bait.

One festal Day, retiring from the Town,
His Patron to his Villa takes him down.
And now, well-mounted, he can scarce forbear
From praising, every Step, the Sabine Air;
While Philip smiles. At length, himself and Friends
Fully to please, he Gold to Menas lends,
And bids him at his Pleasure more require,
Would he turn Farmer, and from Town retire.

To cut my Story short, a Farm is bought;
Now, a mere Rustic, in each Word and Thought

377

He dwells on Fields or Vineyards; Trees he plants;
And still the more he gains, the more he wants.
But when he found himself at last bereft
Of Flocks and Herds, by Sickness or by Theft,
His Hopes deceiv'd by an ungrateful Soil,
And all his Steers worn out by Length of Toil,
At Dead of Night, with Grief and Rage opprest,
He flies to Philip, an unlook'd-for Guest.
Soon as he saw his rough and woful Mien,
He cries, ‘By Labour, Menas, or Chagrin,
‘You're alter'd much.’ He answers, “Every Name,
“By Heaven, but that of Wretch, I here disclaim.
“By the good Genius then that rules your Fate,
“And this Right Hand, so sacred, I intreat,
“Restore, restore me to my former State!”

When by Experience thus we learn, how vain
Our Hopes, 'tis prudent timely to regain
The Port we left. We all shall surely find
That the best Station which best suits our Mind.