Horace His arte of Poetrie, Epistles, and Satyrs Englished ::

This was the thing I wished for,
an hansum roume of ground,
An orchard place, a fountaine bryght,
with stones empounded rounde.
Sum trees, to ouer shade the same,
the goddes this good beheste
Haue graunted me: they haue fulfilde.
and betterde my request.
Content. Graunte this, frend Mercurie,
(for nothing els I craue)
Graunt this god good, for tearme of life,
this liuelod I may haue.
If I got not my goodes by fraude,
nor pore man did oppresse.

Nor thorough ryot, or negligence,
do meane to make it lesse?
And do not vse to wishe so vaine,

Vaine vvishes propes to fooles.

as foolishe worldlings do.
O that yond peece of grounde, were myne
it mames myne orcharde so.
O that it were myne happie chaunce,
to fynde a pot of goulde,
To purchasse fearmes, suche worthy fermes
as now are to be soulde.
As some haue done, as he to whome,
God hercules did bringe
A gubbe of goulde, who sence hath bought
a woorthie wealthie thinge.
A manor, here and now dothe till
his grounde and cherelye singe.
If god haue lente me anie thinge,
I thancke him much for that.
And praye him, for to make me sheepe,
and cattle verye fatte.
And, for to fatten all I haue,
excepte my witte alone:
If that be fatte, adew good lorde,
our musies may be gon.
Synce I am cumde from city now,
into the countrye towne,
What shall be done (my ryming muse?)
shall I in satyres frowne?
Not lewde ambition vexeth here,
nor washye southerne wynde:
Nor fruitlesse harueste, burninge tyme
vnto the feeldes vnkynde.
Thou father of the mornynge tyde
God Ianus, by thy name,
In whom, men take in hande their woorkes
and sett vppon the same:

O Ianus, helpe thou on my verse,
thou knowes the cruell coyle
In Citie kepte, as eeke the ease
of quiet countrie soyle,
In Rome, I nedes muste ryse bytime,
to be some suretie,
To speake to him, and him for them
they still do call on me.
Though whiskinge wyndes do shaue the earth,
and though the snawishe day
Be shorte, and sharpe, I muste abrode
they will not let me stay.
If that I speake not pleasingly,
but vprighte in my mynde,
Then sure I am in places all,
ynough of foes to fynde:
I muste be crowded in the throng,
and staie, when I woulde walke,
What ayles this foole? how shoues he on?
suche is their angrie talke.
Or if we to Macænas walkd
(for that is all in all,)
That makes our greate vnquietnesse
to seme to vs so small
(I make no lye) as sone as I
draw neare the Pallace place,
An hundreth suiters call to me,
to speake vnto his grace.
One cals on me, at two a clocke,
to moute hall for to go.
The scribes pray me, for maine affaires
to hast the moute hal fro.
If there be any grauntes drawne out,
that tarrye for the seale,
They cry on me, vnto my lorde
the thing for to reueale.

A seuen, or eyght yeares now it is,
since that Mecæne my lord
Did dub me his, and bad me cum
aye welcome to his borde.
Not to debate of graunde affaires:
in waggen for to ryde,
To tell, or heare sum tryfled thing,
I placed by his side.
As thus, how that the day doth spend,
in maygames, and in play
The Tracian or the Sarian,
which bare the prise away,
And of the season of the yere,
and how the morning coulde,
Did nip the foole in sommer tyde,
that loke to nothing would.
Such talke, as into eares of drabbes,
safely man might power.
Through this, mine hatred quickned first
and kindled euery hower.
For if in case the noble duke
did solace him abrode,
(Lo) yonder (sayde they) fortunes whelp,
and mokde me wher I rode.
If from the preeuie councel cum
sum muttring of the warre,
Then, who that meetes me, questiōs me,
and greetes me faire from farre.

People
Good maister, (you do know those goddes
because of neare accesse)
Must we to warre on Dacia,
our selues in armoure dresse?

Ho.
I hard it not.

Peo.
By gisse, (Horace)
you will not leaue your mockinge:

Hor.
Then on my heade (in stiddie wise
let all the goddes be knocking.

Poe,
Cesar made promise he would geue
his souldiers grounde to till:
In Sycilie or Italie?
Sir what is Cesors wil?

Horace,
Me swearing that I know nothing,
they maruaile, as at one,
Of famouse taciturnitie,
and secret gift alone.
In Cytie, thus I spende my dayes,
in muche recourse of care,
O manor place, when shall I see
thy groues so freshe, and fayre?
When shall I soundly plye my booke,
and at my vacant howers
Cut from the world profoundly sleepe,
amid the fragraunt flowers?
Pythagoras, when shall thy beanes,
or colewortes sybbe of kinde
Refresh my hungry appetyte,
whilst I haue supte or dynde?
O nightes, and suppers of the goodes,
in which both I and mine
Make chere at home: my iolli men
do feede so cleane, and fyne
Of all the townishe delicates,
of what, so lykes them best,
My straungers francklye take repast,
with liuely harte, at rest.
When that our sobre companie
begins to warme with drinke,
Of purchasing, or supplantinge
we do not eftsones thinke:
In trothe, our talke it multiplyes,
but not of baude, or queane,
Or who doth friske it best in daunce,
no it is chast, and cleane.

Of knowledge, most behoueable,
as if in riches be,
Or in vertue, the chefest good,
(I clepde felicitye.)
If frendshipp spring of vse, or gaine,
or do to vertue tende
What is the good calde soueraigne,
what is her verye ende.
If any praysinge hurtefull goodes,
of ignoraunce do fayle,
Our neyghbour Seruie, hearing that,
steppes in to tell his tale:
Full gosseplike, the father sage,
beginnes his fable then.
The countrye mouse, did enterteyne,
within her homelye den
The citie mouse, the olde hostesse,

Fable toulde.

her olde acquainted frende
Doth welcum, loth to sparple muche:
and yet for to vnbynde
The corsey anguishe of her geste
with syghtes of daintie fare:
Not hurded pulse, nor longe stalkd otes,
(the prodigal) doth spare.
She serues in mouth the curnell drye,
the gobbets chewde of larde,
To please her geste, with cheefeste meates,
was cheeflie her regarde:
(Her geste that tasted on eche thinge
with toth of muche disdaine)
The rurall mouse eate new thrushde chaffe,
and put her selfe to paine:
Reseruing wheate, and cockle flower,
(two dishes of muche ioy)
Unto the fyne fed citizen,
a straunger all to coy.

At lenghthe bespeakes the cytie mouse:
my frende why lyke you still,
To lyue in countrye fastynglye,
vpon a craggie hill?
How say you? can you fynde in hearte
to haunte, and set more by
The citie, then the saluage woodes?
marche on, be boulde to trye.
Our earthelie soule is ruinouse,
not possible to flye
From dinte of death, by any meanes,
the longeste liude muste dye.
Wherfore good sister, whilste thou maiste,
do bayth they selfe in blisse,
Remember aye, how shadowye,
and shorte this lyfe time is.
These sayinges moued the rusticall,
full lightlie leapeth she:
They both begin this gay exployte,
the citie for to see.
Benighted cum they to the towne:
(for midnighte then did hyde
The midle parte of roumie skie)
when both at equall tyde,
Did presse their foote in pallace proude:
where scarlet vesturs reade,
On Iuery beddes did glose with gleames,
as it were glowing gleade.
Muche was the noble remainder,
of gorgiouse supper paste,
Whiche was bestowed in baskets shutte,
not clasped very faste.
Therfore, this straunger (countrie mouse)
on purple quishion set,
The townishe dame (as nurturde well,)
her noble cates doth fette.

A feast, of much varietie.
she like a seruinge page
Dyd dayne to go to bring, to taste,
in proper personage.
The trauailer, doth lyke her chaunge,
and quyte deuoyde of feare,
As dedicate to feaste, and wealthe,
doth glade her selfe wit cheare.
All sodeynly, the clappynge dore,
doth fraye them into flore,
Affrighted sore, a runde they trip,
Dismayed more, and more.
Also the vaste, and ample house,
of mastie dogges did sounde,
The mowse, beset in sorye wyse,
doth shape her auswere rounde:
Farewell: I nede not suche a lyfe:
the harmelesse wood, and caue,
Can comforte me, with fatche, and tare,
and so my bodye saue.

University of Virginia Library

The sixte satire [of Horace]