Satires, Epistles, and Art of Poetry | Page 7

small.
What marvel if, when wealth's your one concern,
None
offers you the love you never earn?
Nay, would you win the kinsmen
Nature sends
Made ready to your hand, and keep them friends,

'Twere but lost labour, as if one should train
A donkey for the course
by bit and rein.
Make then an end of getting: know, the more
Your wealth, the less
the risk of being poor;
And, having gained the object of your quest,


Begin to slack your efforts and take rest;
Nor act like one Ummidius
(never fear,
The tale is short, and 'tis the last you'll hear),
So rich,

his gold he by the peck would tell,
So mean, the slave that served him
dressed as well;
E'en to his dying day he went in dread
Of perishing
for simple want of bread,
Till a brave damsel, of Tyndarid line
The
true descendant, clove him down the chine.
"What? would you have me live like some we know,
Maenius or
Nomentanus?" There you go!
Still in extremes! in bidding you
forsake
A miser's ways, I say not, Be a rake.
'Twixt Tanais and
Visellius' sire-in-law
A step there is, and broader than a straw.
Yes,
there's a mean in morals: life has lines,
To north or south of which all
virtue pines.
Now to resume our subject: why, I say,
Should each man act the
miser in his way,
Still discontented with his natural lot,
Still
praising those who have what he has not?
Why should he waste with
very spite, to see
His neighbour has a milkier cow than he,
Ne'er
think how much he's richer than the mass,
But always strive this man
or that to pass?
In such a contest, speed we as we may,
There's
some one wealthier ever in the way.
So from their base when vying
chariots pour,
Each driver presses on the car before,
Wastes not a
thought on rivals overpast,
But leaves them to lag on among the last.

Hence comes it that the man is rarely seen
Who owns that his a
happy life has been,
And, thankful for past blessings, with good will

Retires, like one who has enjoyed his fill.
Enough: you'll think I've
rifled the scrutore
Of blind Crispinus, if I prose on more.
SATIRE III.
OMNIBUS HOC VITIUM.
All singers have a fault: if asked to use
Their talent among friends,
they never choose;
Unask'd, they ne'er leave off. Just such a one

Tigellius was, Sardinia's famous son.
Caesar, who could have forced
him to obey,
By his sire's friendship and his own might pray,

Yet

not draw forth a note: then, if the whim
Took him, he'd troll a
Bacchanalian hymn,
From top to bottom of the tetrachord,
Till the
last course was set upon the board.
One mass of inconsistence, oft
he'd fly
As if the foe were following in full cry,
While oft he'd stalk
with a majestic gait,
Like Juno's priest in ceremonial-state.
Now, he
would keep two hundred serving-men,
And now, a bare establishment
of ten.
Of kings and tetrarchs with an equal's air
He'd talk: next day
he'd breathe the hermit's prayer:
"A table with three legs, a shell to
hold
My salt, and clothes, though coarse, to keep out cold."
Yet
give this man, so frugal, so content,
A thousand, in a week 'twould all
be spent.
All night he would sit up, all day would snore:
So strange
a jumble ne'er was seen before.
"Hold!" some one cries, "have you no failings?" Yes;
Failings enough,
but different, maybe less.
One day when Maenius happened to attack

Novius the usurer behind his back,
"Do you not know yourself?"
said one, "or think
That if you play the stranger, we shall wink?"

"Not know myself!" he answered, "you say true:
I do not: so I take a
stranger's due."
Self-love like this is knavish and absurd,
And well
deserves a damnatory word.
You glance at your own faults; your eyes
are blear:
You eye your neighbour's; straightway you see clear,

Like hawk or basilisk: your neighbours pry
Into your frailties with as
keen an eye.
A man is passionate, perhaps misplaced
In social
circles of fastidious taste;
His ill-trimmed beard, his dress of uncouth
style,
His shoes ill-fitting, may provoke a smile:
But he's the soul of
virtue; but he's kind;
But that coarse body hides a mighty mind.

Now, having scanned his breast, inspect your own,
And see if there
no failings have been sown
By Nature or by habit, as the fern


Springs in neglected fields, for men to burn.
True love, we know, is blind: defects that blight
The loved one's
charms escape the lover's sight,
Nay, pass for beauties, as Balbinus
glows
With admiration of his Hagna's nose.
Ah, if in friendship we

e'en did the same,
And virtue cloaked the error with her name!

Come, let us learn how friends at friends should look
By a leaf taken
from a father's book.
Has the dear child a squint? at home he's classed

With Venus' self; "her eyes have just that cast:"
Is he a dwarf like
Sisyphus? his sire
Calls him "sweet pet," and would not have him
higher,
Gives Varus' name to knock-kneed boys, and dubs
His
club-foot youngster Scaurus, king of clubs.
E'en so let us our
neighbours' frailties scan:
A friend is close; call him a careful man:

Another's vain and fond of boasting; say,
He