What then? When the warmth mounts to his drunken brain,
And his eyes see double, Milonius likes to dance:
Castor loves horses, his brother born from the same egg
Loves boxing: a thousand men have a thousand different
Pastimes: my joy’s imprisoning words in poetic metre,
Like Lucilius, a better man than either of us.
He used to entrust his secrets to his books, like faithful
Friends, never seeking recourse elsewhere whether things
Went well or badly: so the old man’s whole life lies open
To view, as if it were depicted on a votive tablet.
I’m his follower, Lucanian or Apulian, or both:
Since colonists in Venusia plough the border,
Sent there, as the old tale goes, when the Samnites
Were expelled, so no enemy could attack Rome
Across the gap if Apulian or Lucanian folk
Threatened violent war. But my stylus will never
Harm a living soul, of my free will, only defend me,
My blade’s sheathed: why would I try to draw it, when I’m
Safe from wild attacks? O Jupiter, king and father,
Let my weapon rest there, and let it rust away,
Let no one injure me, a lover of peace! But he
Who provokes me (better not touch, I cry!) will suffer,
And his blemishes will be sung throughout the City.