Epist. XVI. To Quintius.
Ask not, dear Quintius, if my Farm maintain
With Fruits, or Meadows, or abundant Grain,
Its wealthy Master; ask not if the Vine
Around its Bridegroom-Elm luxuriant twine,
For I'll describe, and in loquacious Strain,
The Site and Figure of the pleasing Scene.
A Chain of Mountains with a Vale divide,
Whose Shades receive the Sun on either Side:
The right wide opening to the rising Day,
The left is warm'd beneath his setting Ray.
How mild the Clime, where Sloes luxurious grow,
And blushing Cornels on the Hawthorn glow;
With plenteous Acorns are my Cattle fed,
Whose various Oaks around their Master spread;
For you might say, that here Tarentum waves
Its dusky Shade, and pours forth all its Leaves.
A Fountain to a Rivulet gives its Name,
Cooler and purer than a Thracian Stream,
Useful to ease an aching Head it flows,
Or when with burning Pains the Stomach glows.
This pleasing, this delicious soft Retreat
In Safety guards me from September's Heat.
Would you be happy, be the Thing you seem,
And sure you now possess the World's Esteem;
Nor yet to others too much Credit give,
But in your own Opinion learn to live;
For know the Bliss in our own Judgement lies,
And none are happy, but the Good and Wise.
Nor, though the Croud pronounce your Health is good,
Disguise the Fever lurking in your Blood,
'Till trembling seize you at th' unfinish'd Meal,
For Fools alone their ulcer'd Ills conceal.
If some bold Flatterer sooth your listening Ears,
“The conquer'd World, dread Sir, thy Name reveres,
“And Jove, our Guardian God, with Power divine,
“Who watches o'er Rome's Happiness and thine,
“Yet holds it doubtful, whether Rome or You,
“With greater Warmth, each other's Good pursue.”
This Praise, you own, is sacred Cæsar's Fame;
But can you answer to your proper Name,
When you are call'd th' Accomplish'd or the Wise,
Names which we all with equal Ardour prize?
Yet he, who gives to-day this heedless Praise,
Shall take it back to-morrow, if he please,
As when the People from some worthless Knave
Can tear away the Consulship they gave;
“Lay down the Name of Wisdom, Sir, 'tis mine;”
Confus'd I leave him and his Gift resign.
What if he say I hang'd my aged Sire,
Call me a Thief, a Slave to lewd Desire,
Shall I be tortur'd with unjust Disgrace,
Or change the guilty Colours of my Face?
False Praise can charm, unreal Shame controul—
Whom, but a vicious or a sickly Soul?
Who then is good?
Quintius.
Who carefully observes
The Senate's wise Decrees, nor ever swerves
From the known Rules of Justice and the Laws:
Whose Bail secures, whose Oath decides a Cause.
Horace.
Yet his own House, his Neighbours, through his Art
Behold an inward Baseness in his Heart.
Suppose a Slave should say, I never steal,
I never ran away—“nor do you feel
“The flagrant Lash”—No human Blood I shed—
“Nor on the Cross the ravening Crows have fed”—
But Sir, I am an honest Slave, and wise—
“My Sabine Neighbour there the Fact denies.
“For wily Wolves the fatal Pit-fall fear;
“Kites fly the Bait, and Hawks the latent Snare;
“But virtuous Minds a Love of Virtue charms:
“The Fear of Chastisement thy Guilt alarms.
“When from my Stores you steal one Grain of Wheat,
“My Loss indeed is less, your Crime as great.”
Your honest Man, on whom with awful Praise
The Forum and the Courts of Justice gaze,
If e'er he make a public Sacrifice,
Dread Janus, Phœbus, clear and loud he cries;
But when his Prayer in earnest is prefer'd,
Scarce moves his Lips, afraid of being heard,
“Beauteous Laverna, my Petition hear;
“Let me with Truth and Sanctity appear:
“Oh! give me to deceive, and, with a Veil
“Of Darkness and of Night, my Crimes conceal.”
Behold the Miser bending down to Earth
For a poor Farthing, which the Boys in Mirth
Fix'd to the Ground; and shall the Caitiff dare
In honest Freedom with a Slave compare?
Whoever wishes is with Fear possest,
And he, who holds that Passion in his Breast,
Is in my Sense a Slave; hath left the Post
Where Virtue plac'd him, and his Arms hath lost:
To purchase hasty Wealth his Force applies,
And overwhelm'd beneath his Burden lies.
Say, is not this a very worthless Knave?
But if You have the most untoward Slave,
Yet kill him not, he may some Profit yield,
Of Strength to guard your Flocks and plow your Field,
Or let him winter in the stormy Main,
By Imports to reduce the Price of Grain.
The Good, and Wise, like Bacchus in the Play,
Dare, to the King of Thebes, undaunted say,
What can thy Power? Thy Threatenings I disdain.
Pentheus.
I'll take away thy Goods.
Bacchus.
Perhaps, you mean
My Cattle, Money, Moveables or Land;
Then take them all.
Pentheus.
But, Slave, if I command,
A cruel Jailor shall thy Freedom seize.
Bacchus.
A God shall set me free, whene'er I please.
Horace.
Death is that God, the Poet here intends,
That utmost Course, where human Sorrow ends.
