Satires, Epistles, and Art of Poetry | Page 6

could scarcely have
failed to rank high among the cultivators of this branch of literature.
BOOK I.
SATIRE I.
QUI FIT, MAECENAS.
How comes it, say, Maecenas, if you can,
That none will live like a
contented man
Where choice or chance directs, but each must praise

The folk who pass through life by other ways?
"Those lucky
merchants!" cries the soldier stout,
When years of toil have well-nigh
worn him out:
What says the merchant, tossing o'er the brine?
"Yon
soldier's lot is happier, sure, than mine:
One short, sharp shock, and
presto! all is done:
Death in an instant comes, or victory's won."

The lawyer lauds the farmer, when a knock
Disturbs his sleep at
crowing of the cock:
The farmer, dragged to town on business,
swears
That only citizens are free from cares.
I need not run
through all: so long the list,
Fabius himself would weary and desist:

So take in brief my meaning: just suppose
Some God should come,
and with their wishes close:
"See, here am I, come down of my mere
grace
To right you: soldier, take the merchant's place!
You,
counsellor, the farmer's! go your way,
One here, one there! None
stirring? all say nay?
How now? you won't be happy when you may."

Now, after this, would Jove be aught to blame
If with both cheeks
he burst into a flame,
And vowed, when next they pray, they shall not

find
His temper easy, or his ear inclined?
Well, not to treat things lightly (though, for me,
Why truth may not
be gay, I cannot see:
Just as, we know, judicious teachers coax
With
sugar-plum or cake their little folks
To learn their alphabet):--still, we
will try
A graver tone, and lay our joking by.
The man that with his
plough subdues the land,
The soldier stout, the vintner sly and bland,

The venturous sons of ocean, all declare
That with one view the
toils of life they bear,
When age has come, and labour has amassed

Enough to live on, to retire at last:
E'en so the ant (for no bad pattern
she),
That tiny type of giant industry,
Drags grain by grain, and
adds it to the sum
Of her full heap, foreseeing cold to come:
Yet
she, when winter turns the year to chill,
Stirs not an inch beyond her
mounded hill,
But lives upon her savings: you, more bold,
Ne'er
quit your gain for fiercest heat or cold:
Fire, ocean, sword, defying all,
you strive
To make yourself the richest man alive.
Yet where's the
profit, if you hide by stealth
In pit or cavern your enormous wealth?

"Why, once break in upon it, friend, you know,
And, dwindling
piece by piece, the whole will go."
But, if 'tis still unbroken, what
delight
Can all that treasure give to mortal wight?
Say, you've a
million quarters on your floor:
Your stomach is like mine: it holds no
more:
Just as the slave who 'neath the bread-bag sweats
No larger
ration than his fellows gets.
What matters it to reasonable men

Whether they plough a hundred fields or ten?
"But there's a pleasure,
spite of all you say,
In a large heap from which to take away."
If
both contain the modicum we lack,
Why should your barn be better
than my sack?
You want a draught of water: a mere urn,

Perchance
a goblet, well would serve your turn:
You say, "The stream looks
scanty at its head;
I'll take my quantum where 'tis broad instead."

But what befalls the wight who yearns for more
Than Nature bids
him? down the waters pour,
And whelm him, bank and all; while he
whose greed
Is kept in check, proportioned to his need,
He neither
draws his water mixed with mud,
Nor leaves his life behind him in

the flood.
But there's a class of persons, led astray
By false desires, and this is
what they say:
"You cannot have enough: what you possess,
That
makes your value, be it more or less."
What answer would you make
to such as these?
Why, let them hug their misery if they please,

Like the Athenian miser, who was wont
To meet men's curses with a
hero's front:
"Folks hiss me," said he, "but myself I clap
When I tell
o'er my treasures on my lap."
So Tantalus catches at the waves that
fly
His thirsty palate--Laughing, are you? why?
Change but the
name, of you the tale is told:
You sleep, mouth open, on your hoarded
gold;
Gold that you treat as sacred, dare not use,
In fact, that charms
you as a picture does.
Come, will you hear what wealth can fairly do?

'Twill buy you bread, and vegetables too,
And wine, a good pint
measure: add to this
Such needful things as flesh and blood would
miss.
But to go mad with watching, nights and days
To stand in
dread of thieves, fires, runaways
Who filch and fly,--in these if
wealth consist,
Let me rank lowest on the paupers' list.
"But if you suffer from a chill attack,
Or other chance should lay you
on your back,
You then have one who'll sit by your bed-side,
Will
see the needful remedies applied,
And call in a physician, to restore

Your health, and give you to your friends once more."
Nor wife nor
son desires your welfare: all
Detest you, neighbours, gossips, great
and