Don't kill your captive: keep him: he will sell; Some things there are the creature will do well: He'll plough and feed the cattle, cross the deep And traffic, carry corn, make produce cheap.

The wise and good, like Bacchus in the play, When Fortune threats, will have the nerve to say: "Great king of Thebes, what pains can you devise The man who will not serve you to chastise?"

"I'll take your goods." "My flocks, my land, to wit, My plate, my couches: do, if you think fit."

"I'll keep you chained and guarded in close thrall."

"A G.o.d will come to free me when I call."

Yes, he will die; 'tis that the bard intends; For when Death comes, the power of Fortune ends.

XVII. TO SCAEVA.

QUAMVIS, SCAEVA.

Though instinct tells you, Scaeva, how to act, And makes you live among the great with tact, Yet hear a fellow-student; 'tis as though The blind should point you out the way to go, But still give heed, and see if I produce Aught that hereafter you may find of use.

If rest is what you like, and sleep till eight, If dust and rumbling wheels are what you hate, If tavern-life disgusts you, then repair To Ferentinum, and turn hermit there; For wealth has no monopoly of bliss, And life unnoticed is not lived amiss: But if you'd help your friends, and like a treat, Then drop dry bread, and take to juicy meat.

"If Aristippus could but dine off greens, He'd cease to cultivate his kings and queens."

"If that rude snarler knew but queens and kings, He'd find his greens unpalatable things."

Thus far the rival sages. Tell me true, Whose words you think the wiser of the two, Or hear (to listen is a junior's place) Why Aristippus has the better case; For he, the story goes, with this remark Once stopped the Cynic's aggravating bark: "Buffoon I may be, but I ply my trade For solid value; you ply yours unpaid.

I pay my daily duty to the great, That I may ride a horse and dine in state; You, though you talk of independence, yet, Each time you beg for sc.r.a.ps, contract a debt."

All lives sat well on Aristippus; though He liked the high, he yet could grace the low; But the dogged sage whose blanket folds in two Would be less apt in changing old for new.

Take from the one his robe of costly red, He'll not refuse to dress, or keep his bed; Clothed as you please, he'll walk the crowded street, And, though not fine, will manage to look neat.

Put purple on the other, not the touch Of toad or asp would startle him so much; Give back his blanket, or he'll die of chill: Yes, give it back; he's too absurd to kill.

To win great fights, to lead before men's eyes A captive foe, is half way to the skies: Just so, to gain by honourable ways A great man's favour is no vulgar praise: You know the proverb, "Corinth town is fair, But 'tis not every man that can get there."

One man sits still, not hoping to succeed; One makes the journey; he's a man indeed!

'Tis that we look for; not to shift a weight Which little frames and little souls think great, But stoop and bear it. Virtue's a mere name, Or 'tis high venture that achieves high aim.

Those who have tact their poverty to mask Before their chief get more than those who ask; It makes, you see, a difference, if you take As modest people do, or s.n.a.t.c.h your cake; Yet that's the point from which our question starts, By what way best to get at patrons' hearts.

"My mother's poor, my sister's dower is due, My farm won't sell or yield us corn enow,"

What is all this but just the beggar's cry, "I'm starving; give me food for charity"?

"Ah!" whines another in a minor key, "The loaf's in out; pray spare a slice for me."

But if in peace the raven would have fed, He'd have had less of clawing, more of bread.

A poor companion whom his friend takes down To fair Surrentum or Brundisium's town, If he makes much of cold, bad roads, and rain, Or moans o'er cash-box forced and money ta'en, Reminds us of a girl, some artful thing, Who cries for a lost bracelet or a ring, With this result, that when she comes to grieve For real misfortunes, no one will believe.

So, hoaxed by one impostor, in the street A man won't set a cripple on his feet, Though he invoke Osiris, and appeal With streaming tears to hearts that will not feel, "Lift up a poor lame man! I tell no lie;"

"Treat foreigners to that," the neighbours cry.

XVIII. TO LOLLIUS.

SI BENE TE NOVI.

You'd blush, good Lollius, if I judge you right, To mix the parts of friend and parasite.

'Twixt parasite and friend a gulf is placed, Wide as between the wanton and the chaste; Yet think not flattery friendship's only curse: A different vice there is, perhaps a worse, A brutal boorishness, which fain would win Regard by unbrushed teeth and close-shorn skin, Yet all the while is anxious to be thought Pure independence, acting as it ought.

Between these faults 'tis Virtue's place to stand, At distance from the extreme on either hand.

The flatterer by profession, whom you see At every feast among the lowest three, Hangs on his patron's looks, takes up each word Which, dropped by chance, might else expire unheard, Like schoolboys echoing what their masters say In sing-song drawl, or Gnatho in the play: While your blunt fellow battles for a straw, As though he'd knock you down or take the law: "How now, good sir? you mean my word to doubt?

When I once think a thing, I mayn't speak out?

Though living on your terms were living twice, Instead of once, 'twere dear at such a price."

And what's the question that brings on these fits?-- Does Dolichos or Castor make more hits?

Or, starting for Brundisium, will it pay To take the Appian or Minucian way?

Him that gives in to dice or lewd excess, Who apes rich folks in equipage and dress, Who meanly covets to increase his store, And shrinks as meanly from the name of poor, That man his patron, though on all those heads Perhaps a worse offender, hates and dreads, Or says to him what tender parents say, Who'd have their children better men than they: "Don't vie with me," he says, and he says true; "My wealth will bear the silly things I do; Yours is a slender pittance at the best; A wise man cuts his coat--you know the rest."

Eutrapelus, whene'er a grudge he owed To any, gave him garments a la mode; Because, said he, the wretch will feel inspired With new conceptions when he's new attired; He'll sleep through half the day, let business go For pleasure, teach a usurer's cash to grow; At last he'll turn a fencer, or will trudge Beside a cart, a market-gardener's drudge.

Avoid all prying; what you're told, keep back, Though wine or anger put you on the rack; Nor puff your own, nor slight your friend's pursuits, Nor court the Muses when he'd chase the brutes.

'Twas thus the Theban brethren jarred, until The harp that vexed the stern one became still.

Amphion humoured his stern brother: well, Your friend speaks gently; do not you rebel: No; when he gives the summons, and prepares To take the field with hounds, and darts, and snares, Leave your dull Muse to sulkiness and sloth, That both may feast on dainties earned by both.

'Tis a true Roman pastime, and your frame Will gain thereby, no less than your good name: Besides, you're strong; in running you can match The dogs, and kill the fiercest boar you catch: Who plays like you? you have but to appear In Mars's field to raise a general cheer: Remember too, you served a hard campaign, When scarce past boyhood, in the wars of Spain, Beneath his lead who brings our standards home, And makes each nook of earth a prize for Rome.

Just one thing more, lest still you should refuse And show caprice that nothing can excuse: Safe as you are from doing aught unmeet, You sometimes trifle at your father's seat; The Actian fight in miniature you play, With boats for ships, your lake for Hadria's bay, Your brother for your foe, your slaves for crews, And so you battle till you win or lose.

Let your friend see you share his taste, he'll vow He never knew what sport was like till now.

Well, to proceed; beware, if there is room For warning, what you mention, and to whom; Avoid a ceaseless questioner; he burns To tell the next he talks with what he learns; Wide ears retain no secrets, and you know You can't get back a word you once let go.

Look round and round the man you recommend, For yours will be the shame should he offend.

Sometimes we're duped; a protege dragged down By his own fault must e'en be left to drown, That you may help another known and tried, And show yourself his champion if belied; For when 'gainst him detraction forks her tongue, Be sure she'll treat you to the same ere long.

No time for sleeping with a fire next door; Neglect such things, they only blaze the more.

A patron's service is a strange career; The tiros love it, but the experts fear.

You, while you're sailing on a prosperous tack, Look out for squalls which yet may drive you back.

The gay dislike the grave, the staid the pert, The quick the slow, the lazy the alert; Hard drinkers hate the sober, though he swear Those bouts at night are more than he can bear.

Unknit your brow; the silent man is sure To pa.s.s for crabbed, the modest for obscure.

Meantime, while thoughts like these your mind engage, Neglect not books nor converse with the sage; Ply them with questions; lead them on to tell What things make life go happily and well; How cure desire, the soul's perpetual dearth?

How moderate care for things of trifling worth?

Is virtue raised by culture or self-sown?

What soothes annoy, and makes your heart your own?

Is peace procured by honours, pickings, gains, Or, sought in highways, is she found in lanes?

For me, when freshened by my spring's pure cold Which makes my villagers look pinched and old, What prayers are mine? "O may I yet possess The goods I have, or, if Heaven pleases, less!

Let the few years that Fate may grant me still Be all my own, not held at others' will!

Let me have books, and stores for one year hence, Nor make my life one flutter of suspense!"

But I forbear: sufficient 'tis to pray To Jove for what he gives and takes away: Grant life, grant fortune, for myself I'll find That best of blessings, a contented mind.

XIX. TO MAECENAS.

PRISCO SI CREDIS.

If truth there be in old Cratinus' song, No verse, you know, Maecenas, can live long Writ by a water-drinker. Since the day When Bacchus took us poets into pay With fauns and satyrs, the celestial Nine Have smelt each morning of last evening's wine.