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 prone
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 pronounce 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 snatch 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 gods he pays
His ox or swine, and listen what he says:
"Great Janus, 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.
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 god 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.