XIII. TO VINIUS ASELLA.

UT PROFICISCENTEM.

As I have told you oft, deliver these, My sealed-up volumes, to Augustus, please, Friend Vinius, if he's well and in good trim, And (one proviso more) if asked by him: Beware of over-zeal, nor discommend My works, by playing the impetuous friend.

Suppose my budget, ere you get to town, Should gall you, better straightway throw it down Than, when you've reached the palace, fling the pack With animal impatience from your back, And so be thought in nature as in name Tour father's colt, and made some joker's game.

Tour powers of tough endurance will avail With brooks and ponds to ford and hills to scale: But when you've quelled the perils of the road, Take special care how you adjust your load: Don't tuck beneath your arm these precious gifts, As drunken Pyrrhia does the wool she lifts, As rustics do a lamb, as humble wights Their cap and slippers when asked out at nights.

Don't tell the world you've toiled and sweated hard In carrying lays which Caesar may regard: Push on, nor stop for questions. Now good bye; But pray don't trip, and smash the poetry.

XIV. TO HIS BAILIFF.

VILLICE SILVARUM.

Good bailiff of my farm, that snug domain Which makes its master feel himself again, Which, though you sniff at it, could once support Five hearths, and send five statesmen to the court, Let's have a match in husbandry; we'll try Which can do weeding better, you or I, And see if Horace more repays the hand That clears him of his thistles, or his land.

Though here I'm kept administering relief To my poor Lamia's broken-hearted grief For his lost brother, ne'ertheless my thought Flies to my woods, and counts the distance nought.

You praise the townsman's, I the rustic's state: Admiring others' lots, our own we hate: Each blames the place he lives in: but the mind Is most in fault, which ne'er leaves self behind.

A town-house drudge, for farms you used to sigh; Now towns and shows and baths are all your cry: But I'm consistent with myself: you know I grumble, when to Rome I'm forced to go.

Truth is, our standards differ: what your taste Condemns, forsooth, as so much savage waste, The man who thinks with Horace thinks divine, And hates the things which you believe so fine.

I know your secret: 'tis the cook-shop breeds That lively sense of what the country needs: You grieve because this little nook of mine Would bear Arabian spice as soon as wine; Because no tavern happens to be nigh Where you can go and tipple on the sly, No saucy flute-girl, at whose jigging sound You bring your feet down lumbering to the ground.

And yet, methinks, you've plenty on your hands In breaking up these long unharrowed lands; The ox, unyoked and resting from the plough, Wants fodder, stripped from elm or poplar bough; You've work too at the river, when there's rain, As, but for a strong bank,'twould flood the plain.

Now have a little patience, you shall see What makes the gulf between yourself and me: I, who once wore gay clothes and well-dressed hair, I, who, though poor, could please a greedy fair, I, who could sit from mid-day o'er Falern, Now like short meals and slumbers by the burn: No shame I deem it to have had my sport; The shame had been in frolics not cut short.

There at my farm I fear no evil eye; No pickthank blights my crops as he goes by; My honest neighbours laugh to see me wield A heavy rake, or dibble my own field.

Were wishes wings, you'd join my slaves in town, And share the rations that they swallow down; While that sharp footboy envies you the use Of what my garden, flocks, and woods produce.

The horse would plough, the ox would draw the car.

No; do the work you know, and tarry where you are.

XV. TO C. NUMONIUS VALA.

QUAE SIT HIEMS VELIAE.

If Velia and Salernum tell me, pray, The climate, and the natives, and the way: For Baiae now is lost on me, and I, Once its staunch friend, am turned its enemy, Through Musa's fault, who makes me undergo His cold-bath treatment, spite of frost and snow.

Good sooth, the town is filled with spleen, to see Its myrtle-groves attract no company; To find its sulphur-wells, which forced out pain From joint and sinew, treated with disdain By tender chests and heads, now grown so bold, They brave cold water in the depth of cold, And, finding down at Clusium what they want, Or Gabii, say, make that their winter haunt.

Yes, I must change my quarters; my good horse Must pa.s.s the inns where once he stopped of course.

"How now, you creature? I'm not bound to-day For c.u.mae or for Baiae," I shall say, Pulling the left rein angrily, because A horse when bridled listens through his jaws.

Which place is best supplied with corn, d'ye think?

Have they rain-water or fresh springs to drink?

Their wines I care not for: when at my farm I can drink any sort without much harm; But at the sea I need a generous kind To warm my veins and pa.s.s into my mind, Enrich me with new hopes, choice words supply, And make me comely in a lady's eye.

Which tract is best for game, on which sea-coast Urchins and other fish abound the most, That so, when I return, my friends may see A sleek Phaeacian come to life in me: These things you needs must tell me, Vala dear, And I no less must act on what I hear.

When Maenius, after n.o.bly gobbling down His fortune, took to living on the town, A social beast of prey, with no fixed home, He ranged and ravened o'er the whole of Rome; His maw unfilled, he'd turn on friend and foe; None was too high for worrying, none too low; The scourge and murrain of each butcher's shop, Whate'er he got, he stuffed into his crop.

So, when he'd failed in getting e'er a bit From those who liked or feared his wicked wit, Then down a throat of three-bear power he'd cram Plate after plate of offal, tripe or lamb, And swear, as Bestius might, your gourmand knaves Should have their stomachs branded like a slave's.

But give the brute a piece of daintier prey, When all was done, he'd smack his lips and say, "In faith I cannot wonder, when I hear Of folks who waste a fortune on good cheer, For there's no treat in nature more divine Than a fat thrush or a big paunch of swine."

I'm just his double: when my purse is lean I hug myself, and praise the golden mean, Stout when not tempted; but suppose some day A special t.i.tbit comes into my way, I vow man's happiness is ne'er complete Till based on a substantial country seat.

XVI. TO QUINCTIUS.

NE PERCONTERIS.

About my farm, dear Quinctius; you would know What sort of produce for its lord 'twill grow; Plough-land is it, or meadow-land, or soil For apples, vine-clad elms, or olive oil?

So (but you'll think me garrulous) I'll write A full description of its form and site.

In long continuous line the mountains run, Cleft by a valley which twice feels the sun, Once on the right when first he lifts his beams, Once on the left, when he descends in steams.

You'd praise the climate: well, and what d'ye say To sloes and cornels hanging from the spray?

What to the oak and ilex, that afford Fruit to the cattle, shelter to their lord?

What, but that rich Tarentum must have been Transplanted nearer Rome with all its green?

Then there's a fountain of sufficient size To name the river that takes thence its rise, Not Thracian Hebrus colder or more pure, Of power the head's and stomach's ills to cure.

This sweet retirement--nay, 'tis more than sweet-- Ensures my health e'en in September's heat.

And how fare you? if you deserve in truth The name men give you, you're a happy youth: Rome's thousand tongues, agreed at least in this, Ascribe to you a plenitude of bliss.

Yet, when you judge of self, I fear you're p.r.o.ne To take another's word before your own, To think of happiness as 'twere a prize That men may win though neither good nor wise: Just so the glutton whom the world thinks well Keeps dark his fever till the dinner-bell; Then, as he's eating, with his hands well greased, Shivering comes on, and proves the fool diseased.

O, 'tis a false, false shame that would conceal From doctors' eyes the sores it cannot heal!

Suppose a man should trumpet your success By land and sea, and make you this address: "May Jove, who watches with the same good-will O'er you and Rome, preserve the secret still, Whether the heart within you beats more true To Rome and to her sons, or theirs to you!"

Howe'er your ears might flatter you, you'd say The praise was Caesar's, and had gone astray.

Yet should the town p.r.o.nounce you wise and good, You'd take it to yourself, you know you would.

"Take it? of course I take it," you reply; "You love the praise yourself, then why not I?"

Aye, but the town, that gives you praise to-day, Next week can s.n.a.t.c.h it, if it please, away, As in elections it can mend mistakes, And whom it makes one year, the next unmakes.

"Lay down the fasces," it exclaims; "they're mine:"

I lay them down, and sullenly resign.

Well now, if "Thief" and "Profligate" they roar, Or lay my father's murder at my door, Am I to let their lying scandals bite And change my honest cheeks from red to white?

Trust me, false praise has charms, false blame has pains But for vain hearts, long ears, and addled brains.

Whom call we good? The man who keeps intact Each law, each right, each statute and each act, Whose arbitration terminates dispute, Whose word's a bond, whose witness ends a suit.

Yet his whole house and all the neighbours know He's bad at heart, despite his decent show.

"I," says a slave, "ne'er ran away nor stole:"

Well, what of that? say I: your skin is whole.

"I've shed no blood." You shall not feed the orow.

"I'm good and true." We Sabine folks say No: The wolf avoids the pit, the hawk the snare, And hidden hooks teach fishes to beware.

'Tis love of right that keeps the good from wrong; You do no harm because you fear the thong; Could you be sure that no one would detect, E'en sacrilege might tempt you, I suspect.

Steal but one bean, although the loss be small, The crime's as great as if you stole them all.

See your good man, who oft as he appears In court commands all judgments and all ears; Observe him now, when to the G.o.ds he pays His ox or swine, and listen what he says: "Great Ja.n.u.s, Phoebus"--this he speaks aloud; The rest is muttered all and unavowed-- "Divine Laverna, grant me safe disguise; Let me seem just and upright in men's eyes; Shed night upon my crimes, a glamour o'er my lies."

Say, what's a miser but a slave complete When he'd pick up a penny in the street?

Fearing's a part of coveting, and he Who lives in fear is no freeman for me.

The wretch whose thoughts by gain are all engrossed Has flung away his sword, betrayed his post.