§ 1.1.1  SATIRE I - ON DISCONTENT
How come, Maecenas, no one alive’s ever content
With the lot he chose or the one fate threw in his way,
But praises those who pursue some alternative track?
‘O fortunate tradesman!’ the ageing soldier cries
Body shattered by harsh service, bowed by the years.
The merchant however, ship tossed by a southern gale,
Says: ‘Soldiering’s better. And why? You charge and then:
It’s a quick death in a moment, or a joyful victory won.’
When a client knocks hard on his door before cockcrow
The adept in justice and law praises the farmer’s life,
While he, going bail and having been dragged up to town
From the country, proclaims only town-dwellers happy.
Quoting all the other numerous examples would tire
Even that windbag Fabius. So to avoid delaying you,
Here’s what I’m getting at. If some god said: ‘Here I am!
Now I’ll perform whatever you wish: you be a merchant
Who but now was a soldier: you the lawyer become a farmer:
You change roles with him, he with you, and depart. Well!
What are you waiting for? They’d refuse, on the verge of bliss.
What in reason would stop Jove rightly swelling his cheeks
Then, in anger, and declaring that never again will he
Be so obliging as to attend to their prayers.

§ 1.1.23  Then again, not to pass over the matter with a smile
Like some wit - though what stops one telling the truth
While smiling, as teachers often give children biscuits
To try and tempt them to learn their alphabet? -
No: joking aside, let’s turn to more serious thoughts:
The farmer turning the heavy clay with sturdy plough,
The rascally shopkeeper, the soldier, the sailor
Who boldly sails the seas, all say they only do so
So as to retire in true idleness when they are old,
Having made a pile: just as their exemplar
The tiny labouring ant drags all she can together,
Adding what’s in her mouth to the heap she’s building,
Neither ignorant of nor careless of her tomorrow.
Though as soon as Aquarius freezes the turning year,
Wise creature that she is, she no longer forages,
Using instead what she gathered, while nothing stops you,
Nothing deflects you from riches, not scorching heat, fire
Winter, sword or sea, while there’s a man richer than you.
Yet what good is all that mass of silver and gold to you,
If, fearful, you bury it secretly in some hole in the ground?
‘If I broke into it,’ you say, ‘ it would all be gone, to the last
Brass farthing.’ Yet if you don’t what’s the point of your pile?
Though you’ve threshed a hundred thousand measures of corn
That won’t make your stomach hold any more than mine:
Just like the chain-gang where carrying the heavy bread-bag
Over your shoulder won’t gain you more than the slave
Who lifts nothing. Tell me then, what difference to the man
Who lives within Nature’s bounds, whether he ploughs a hundred
Acres or a thousand? ‘But it’s sweet to take from a big heap.’
Even so why praise your granaries more than our bins,
So long as we’re able to draw as much from the smaller?
It’s as if though you needed no more than a jug of water,
Or a single cup, you said: ‘I’d rather have the same amount
From some vast river rather than this little spring.’ That’s why
Raging Aufidus sweeps away riverbanks, and all those
Who delight in owning more than their fair share of wealth.
But the man who desires only as much as he needs,
Won’t drink muddy water, or lose his life in the flood.

§ 1.1.61  Still, a good many people misled by foolish desire
Say: ‘There’s never enough, you’re only what you own.’
What can one say to that? Let such people be wretched,
Since that’s what they wish: like the rich Athenian miser
Who used to hold the voice of the crowd in contempt:
‘They hiss at me, that crew, but once I’m home I applaud
Myself, as I contemplate all the riches in my chests.’
Tantalus, thirsty, strains towards water that flees his lips –
Why do you mock him? Alter a name and the same tale
Is told of you: covetously sleeping on money-bags
Piled around, forced to protect them like sacred objects,
And take pleasure in them as if they were only paintings.
Don’t you know the value of money, what end it serves?
Buy bread with it, cabbages, a pint of wine: all the rest,
Things where denying them us harms our essential nature.
Does it give you pleasure to lie awake half dead of fright,
Terrified night and day of thieves or fire or slaves who rob
You of what you have, and run away? I’d always wish
To be poorest of the poor when it comes to such blessings.
‘But,’ you say, ‘when your body’s attacked by a feverish chill
Or some other accident’s confined you to your bed,
I’d have someone to sit by me, prepare my medicine
Call in the doctor to revive me, restore me to kith and kin.’
Oh, but your wife doesn’t want you well, nor your son: all
Hate you, your friends and neighbours, girls and boys.
Yet you wonder, setting money before all else,
That no-one offers you the love you’ve failed to earn!
While if you tried to win and keep the love of those kin
Nature gave you without any trouble on your part,
Your effort would be as wasted as trying to train
A donkey to trot to the rein round the Plain of Mars.

§ 1.1.92  So set a limit to greed, and as you gain more
Fear poverty less, achieving what you desired,
Make an end of your labour, lest you do as did
One Ummidius. It’s not a long tale: he was rich,
So much so he was forced to weigh his coins: so stingy
He dressed no better than a slave: and right to the end
He was fearful lest starvation overcome him.
Instead a freedwoman cut him in two with an axe,
She an indomitable scion of Tyndareus’ race!
‘Do you want me to live, then,’ you say, ‘like Naevius
Or Nomentanus?’ Now you’re setting up a war
Of opposites. When I order you not to be avaricious
I’m not telling you to become an idle spendthrift.
Between Visellius’ father-in-law and Tanais
There’s a mean. Measure in everything: in short, there are
Certain boundaries, on neither side of which lies Right.
I return to the point I first made, that no one’s content
In himself, because of greed, but envies all others
Who follow different paths, pines that his neighbour’s goat
Has fuller udders, and instead of comparing himself
With the poorer majority, tries to outdo this man and that.
But however he hurries there’s always one richer in front,
As when the galloping hooves whisk the chariots away
From the gate, the charioteer chasing the vanishing teams,
Indifferent to the stragglers he’s leaving behind.
So we can rarely find a man who claims to have lived
A happy life, who when his time is done is content
To go, like a guest at the banquet who is well sated.
That will do. Lest you think I’ve pillaged the shelves
Of bleary-eyed Crispinus, I’ll add not a single word.

§ 1.2.1  SATIRE II – ON EXTREMISM
The guild of girl flute-players, the quacks who sell drugs,
The beggars, the jesters, the actresses, all of that tribe
Are sad: they grieve that the singer Tigellius has died:
He was so generous they say. But this fellow over here,
Afraid of being a spendthrift, grudges his poor friend
Whatever might stave off the pangs of hunger and cold.
And if you ask that man there why, in his greedy ingratitude,
He’s squandering his father’s and grandfather’s noble estate
Buying up gourmet foodstuffs with money he’s borrowed,
It’s so as not to be thought a mean-spirited miser.
By some men that’s praised and by others condemned.
While Fufidius, rich in land and the money he’s lent,
Afraid of earning the name of a wastrel and spendthrift,
Charges sixty per cent per annum, docked in advance,
And presses you harder the nearer you are to ruin.
He gathers in debts from young men with harsh fathers
Kids who’ve just taken to wearing the toga: ‘Great Jove’
All cry on hearing it, ‘but surely he spends on himself
In line with his earnings? Well, you’d scarcely believe
How bad a friend he is to himself. That father who exiled
His son, whom Terence’s play depicts as living so
Wretchedly, never tortured himself more than he does.

§ 1.2.23  If you ask now: ‘What’s your point in all this? Well,
In avoiding one vice a fool rushes into its opposite.
Maltinus ambles around with his tunic hanging down:
Another, a dandy, hoists his obscenely up to his crotch.
Rufillus smells of lozenges, and Gargonius of goat.
There’s no happy medium. Some will only touch women
Whose ankles are hidden beneath a wife’s flounces:
Another only those who frequent stinking brothels.
Seeing someone he knew exit from one, Cato’s
Noble words were: ‘A blessing on all your doings, since
It’s fine when shameful lust swells youngsters’ veins
For them to wander down here, and not mess around
With other men’s wives.’ ‘I’d hate to be praised for that,’
Says Cupiennius though, an admirer of white-robed snatch.
If you wish bad luck on adulterers, it’s worth your while
To listen how they struggle in every direction,
And how their pleasure is marred by plenty of pain,
And how in the midst of cruel dangers it’s rarely won.
One man leaps from a roof: another, flogged, is hurt
To the point of death: another in flight falls in with
A gang of fierce robbers: a fourth pays gold for his life,
A fifth’s done over by lads, it’s even happened
That a husband with a sword’s reaped the lover’s
Lusty cock and balls. ‘Legal’ all cried: Galba dissenting.

§ 1.2.47  How much safer it is to trade in second class wares,
I mean with freedwomen, whom Sallust runs after
As insanely as any adulterer. Yet if he wished
To be kind and generous in accord with his means,
With reason’s prompting, as modest liberality allows,
He’d give just enough, not what meant shame and ruin
For himself. But no he hugs himself and admires himself
And praises himself for it, because: ‘I never touch wives.’
As Marsaeus, Origo’s lover, who gave the house and farm
He inherited to an actress, once said: ‘May I never
Have anything to do with other men’s wives.’
But you have with prostitutes and actresses, and so
Your reputation suffers more than your wealth. Or
Is it enough for you to avoid the tag, but not what
Causes harm on every side? To throw away a good name,
And squander an inheritance, is always wicked.
What matter whether you sin with a wife or a whore?

§ 1.2.64  Villius, Sulla’s ‘son-in-law’, suffered enough and more
Because of Fausta – he, poor wretch, deceived by her name –
He was punched, and attacked with a sword, and shown
The door, while his rival Longarenus was there inside.
In the face of such problems if a man’s lust were to say:
‘What are you up to? In all my wildness did I ever insist
On a cunt in a robe descended from some mighty consul?’
Would he really reply: ‘But she’s a great man’s daughter.’
If you’d only manage things sensibly, and not confuse
What’s desirable with what hurts you, how much wiser
The opposite advice Nature, rich in her own wealth, gives.
Do you think it’s irrelevant whether your problems
Are your fault or fate’s? Stop angling for wives if you don’t
Want to be sorry, Your more likely to gain from it pain
And effort, rather than reaping the fruits of delight.
Cerinthus, her leg is no straighter, her thigh no softer,
Among emeralds or snowy pearls, whatever you think,
And it’s often better still with a girl in a cloak.
At least she offers her goods without disguise, shows
What she has for sale openly, won’t boast and flaunt
Whatever charms she has, while hiding her faults.

§ 1.2.86  It’s like rich men buying horses: they inspect them
When they’re blanketed, so that if, as often happens,
The hoof supporting a beautiful form is tender, the buyer
Gazing isn’t misled by fine haunches, long neck, small head.
In this they’re wise: don’t study her bodily Graces
With Lynceus’ eyes, yet blinder than Hypseae
Ignore her imperfections. ‘Oh, what legs, what arms!’ True,
But she’s narrow-hipped, long-nosed: short waist, big feet.
With a wife you can only get to see her face:
Unless she’s a Catia long robes hide the rest.
If you want what’s forbidden (since that is what excites you),
What walls protect, there’s a host of things in your way,
Bodyguards, closed litters, hairdressers, hangers-on,
A dress-hem down to her ankles, a robe on top,
A thousand things that stop you gaining an open view.
With the other type, no problem: You can see her almost
Naked in Coan silk, no sign there of bad legs or ugly feet:
And check her out with your eyes. Or would you rather
Be tricked, parted from your cash before the goods are
Revealed? Callimachus says how ‘the hunter chases
The hare through deep snow, but won’t touch it at rest’,
Adding: ‘That’s what my love is like, since it flies past
What’s near, and only chases after what runs away.’
Do you hope with such verses as those to keep
Pain, passion, and a weight of care from your heart?

§ 1.2.111  Wouldn’t it be better to ask what boundaries Nature
Sets to desire, what privations she can stand and what
Will grieve her, and so distinguish solid from void?
Do you ask for a golden cup when you’re dying
Of thirst? Do you scorn all but peacock, or turbot
When you’re starving? When your prick swells, then,
And a young slave girl or boy’s nearby you could take
At that instant, would you rather burst with desire?
Not I: I love the sexual pleasure that’s easy to get.
‘Wait a bit’, ‘More cash’, ‘If my husband’s away’, that girl’s
For the priests, Philodemus says: requesting, himself,
One who’s not too dear, or slow to come when she’s told.
She should be fair and poised: dressed so as not to try
To seem taller or whiter of skin than nature made her.
When a girl like that slips her left thigh under my right,
She’s Ilia or Egeria: I name her however I choose,
No fear, while I fuck, of husbands back from the country,
Doors bursting, dogs howling, the whole house echoing
With the sound of his knocking, the girl deathly pale,
Leaping the bed, her knowing maid shouting afraid
For her limbs, the adulteress for her dowry, I for myself.
Nor, clothes awry, of having to flee bare-foot, scared
For my cash, my skin, or at the very least my reputation.
It’s bad news to be caught: even with Fabio judging.

§ 1.3.1  SATIRE III – ON TOLERANCE
All singers have the same fault, nothing will make them
Offer to sing for their friends when they’re asked,
Yet unasked they never stop. Sardinian Tigellius
Was like that. Even if Caesar, with all his power,
Had begged him to sing out of friendship to him
And his father, he’d have got nowhere: yet if he chose
He’d cry: ‘Hail Bacchus!’ at meals, from the egg to the fruit,
Now in a bass, now tenor, from tip to toe of the lyre.
The man lacked balance: sometimes he’d run as if fleeing
An enemy: sometimes walk slow as a man who’s carrying
Juno’s sacred basket. Sometimes he’d two hundred slaves,
Sometimes just ten: One day it was tetrarchs and kings
And everything royal, the next: ‘All I ask is salt in a shell,
A three-legged table, a coat that however ill-made
Will keep out the cold.’ If you gave ten thousand or so
To this thrifty man content with so little, in a week
His pockets were empty. He’d stay awake all night
Till dawn, then snore all day. Never lived so inconsistent
A creature. ‘Well,’ someone might say, ‘and what about you?
Have you no faults?’ Yes, others, but different and lesser
Perhaps. When Maenius once savaged absent Novius
Someone said: ‘Look at yourself, or do you think to pretend
We can’t see you too?’ He answered: ‘Oh, myself I pardon.’
Such stupid and shameless self-love deserves to be censured.

§ 1.3.25  When we consider our own faults, we accidentally blind
Our eyes with a smear of ointment, but viewing our friends’
We’re as keen-eyed as eagles or Epidaurian snakes.
The result is that they gaze just as keenly at ours.
That man’s a bit hot-tempered, not acceptable
To today’s sensitive folks: another makes you smile
With his rustic haircut, his sloppy toga, loose sandals
That barely stay on his feet: and yet he’s a good man,
None better, and your friend, and great gifts lie hidden
Beneath that form. In short, give yourself a good shaking
And consider whether it’s nature or perhaps a bad habit
That long ago sowed the seeds of wickedness in you:
For the bracken we burn springs up in neglected fields.
Think of the case of a lover in all his blindness
Who fails to see his darling’s ugly blemishes,
Or is even charmed, like Balbinus with Hagne’s mole.
I wished we erred in the same way with our friends,
And morality gave such errors a decent name.
We should behave to a friend as father to son
And not be disgusted by some fault. If a boy squints
His father names him Paetus: Pullus if he’s puny
Like that dwarf who used to exist called Sisyphus:
Varus if he has crooked legs: or if he can barely stand
On twisted ankles gives him the cognomen Scaurus.
Well then let’s call a friend who’s mean, ‘thrifty’. Another
Who’s tactless and boasts a bit: he just wants his friends
To think him ‘sociable’. or perhaps the man’s more fierce
And outspoken: let’s have it he’s ‘frank’ and fearless.
He’s a hothead? We’ll just count him one of the ‘eager’.
This it is that unites friends, and then keeps them united.

§ 1.3.55  We turn virtues themselves upside down in our desire
To foul a spotless jar: the decent man who lives here
Among us, who’s an utterly humble soul, we call him
Slow-witted, thick-headed. Another who flees all deceit
And who never offers a single loophole to malice,
Though we live among the kind of people, where Envy
Is keen and accusations flourish: instead of noting his
Common sense and caution, we call him false and sly.
Of one who’s unsophisticated, as I’ve often shown
Myself to be with you, Maecenas, interrupting you
Perhaps, while reading or thinking, with tiresome chatter:
We say: ‘He quite lacks the social Graces.’ Ah, how
Casually we enact these laws against ourselves!
No man alive is free of faults: the best of us is him
Who’s burdened with the least. If he desires my love,
My gentle friend must, in all fairness, weigh my virtues
With my faults, and incline to the more numerous,
Assuming that is my virtues are the more numerous.
And by that rule I’ll weigh him in the same scale.
If you really expect a friend not to be offended
By your boils, pardon him his warts: it’s only fair
That he forgives who asks forgiveness for his faults.

§ 1.3.76  So, if the vice of anger, and all of the other faults
That cling to fools can’t be wholly excised, why then
Does Reason not employ her own weights and measures
And curb each offence with appropriate punishment?
If a man were to nail his slave to a cross for eating
Left-over fish and cold sauce from the dish he’d been told
To remove, sane men would call him madder than Labeo.
Well how much greater and more insane a fault is this:
When your friend has committed some slight offence,
That you’d be thought ungracious not to have pardoned,
You hate him savagely, and shun him as Ruso is shunned
By his debtor. When the unhappy Kalends come, if he can’t,
Poor wretch, rustle up principal or interest from somewhere,
He has to expose his throat, and listen to those sad Histories!
So what if a drunken friend drenches the couch, or even
Knocks a bowl that must have been touched by Evander’s
Own fingers from the table: should he be less of a friend
In my eyes, even though he may have reached for the bird
On my side of the dish? What would I do then if he should
Commit a theft, betray a trust, or even disown his word?
The Stoics who think all sins are much of a much-ness
Struggle in face of reality: all tradition and feeling rebel
And Expediency too, mother almost of fairness and justice.

§ 1.3.99  When the first living creatures crawled on primeval Earth,
Mute, formless beasts, they fought for their food and shelter
With claws and fists, and then with sticks, and so on up
Until they found words, to give meaning to feelings
And cries, and then names. They began to shun war,
They started to lay out towns and to lay down laws,
By which no man might be thief, brigand, or adulterer.
Even before Helen’s day cunts were a dire cause for battle,
But those who snatched promiscuous love like beasts
And were killed like a bull in the herd by a stronger bull,
Died an unsung death. If you want to study the record
Of those past ages of the world, you’ll be forced to accept
That justice was created out of the fear of injustice.
Nature doesn’t, can’t, distinguish between right and wrong,
As she does between sweet and sour, attractive and hostile:
And Reason can never show it’s the same offence
To cull fresh cabbages out of a neighbour’s garden
As to steal the god’s sacred emblems by night: let’s have
Rules, to lay down a fair punishment for every crime,
Lest we flay with the terrible whip what merits the strap.

§ 1.3.120  There’s little fear of your punishing with the cane
One who deserves worse, given you’d say that theft
Is as bad as highway robbery, and use the same hook
To prune all crime great or small, if only men gave you
Royal powers. If as the Stoics say the wise man’s rich,
Uniquely handsome, a brilliant cobbler, a king for sure,
Why do you need to be given what you already have?
‘That’s not what Chrysippus meant’, they cry, ‘without making
Sandals or shoes the wise man is still a fine cobbler.’ What?
‘Just as a silent Hermogenes is still the best singer
And player: and clever Alfenus when he’d thrown away
All the tools of his trade and closed up his shop, was
A barber still, so the wise man alone’s the master
Of every role, and so a king.’ O mightiest king
Of mighty kings, mischievous lads pluck at your beard:
And unless you drive them away with your staff, the crowd
All round you jostle, while you poor wretch fume and snarl!
To be brief, while you, a king, go to your public bath
Without a single attendant to keep you company
But stupid Crispinus, my sweet friends will forgive me
If I, a fool, commit some crime, and I’ll tolerate
Gladly in turn all their shortcomings, and I’ll live,
More happily than your majesty, a private man.

§ 1.4.1  SATIRE IV – A DEFENCE OF SATIRE
Whenever anyone deserved to be shown as a crook
A thief, a libertine, a murderer, or merely notorious
In some other way, the true poets, those who powered
The Old Comedy: Eupolis, Aristophanes,
Cratinus, used to mark such a man out quite freely.
Lucilius derives from them, as a follower
Who only changed rhythm and metre: witty
With a sharp nose, true, but the verse he wrote was rough.
That’s where the fault lay: often, epically, he’d dictate
Two hundred lines, do it standing on one foot even!
A lot should have been dredged from his murky stream.
He was garrulous, hated the labour involved in writing,
Writing well, I mean: I don’t care for mere quantity.
Watch Crispinus offer me long odds: ‘Now, if you please,
Take your tablets and I’ll take mine: pick a time, a place,
The judges: let’s see which of us can scribble the most.’
Thank the gods I’m a man of few ideas, with no spirit,
One who speaks only rarely, and then says little.
But if it’s what you prefer, then you imitate air shut
In a goat-skin bellows, labouring away till the fire
Makes the iron melt. Blessed be Fannius who offers
His books and a bust unasked, while no one reads
What I write, and I’m afraid to recite it aloud
Since some care little for that sort of thing, and most
Men deserve censure. Choose any man from the crowd:
He’ll be bothered by avarice or some wretched ambition.

§ 1.4.26  This man is crazy for married women, another for boys:
That man’s captivated by gleaming silver: Albius
Marvels at bronze: this man trades his goods from the east
To the lands warmed by the evening rays, rushes headlong
Just like the dust caught up by the wind, full of fear
Lest he loses his capital or the chance of a profit.
All of them dread our verses and hate the poets.
‘He’s dangerous, flee, he’s marked by hay tied to his horns!
He won’t spare a single friend to get a laugh for himself:
And whatever he’s scribbled all over his parchments
He’s eager for all the slaves and old women to know,
On their way from the well or the bake-house.’ Well listen
To these few words of reply. First I’d cut my own name
From those I listed as poets: it’s not enough merely
To turn out a verse, and you can’t call someone a poet
Who writes like me in a style close to everyday speech.
Give the honour owed to that name to a man of talent,
One with a soul divine, and a powerful gift of song.
That’s why some people have doubted if Comedy
Is true poetry, since in words and content it lacks
Inspired force and fire, and except that it differs
From prose in its regular beat, is merely prose.
‘But it highlights a father there in a raging temper,
Because his son, a spendthrift whose madly in love
With his mistress, a slut, shuns a girl with an ample dowry,
Reels around drunk, and causes a scandal, with torches
At even-tide.’ Yes, but wouldn’t Pomponius get
A lecture no less severe from a real father? So,
It’s not nearly enough to write out a line in plain speech,
That if you arranged it, would allow any father to fume
Like the one in the play. Take the regular rhythm
From this that I’m writing now, or Lucilius wrote,
Putting the first words last, placing the last ones first,
It’s not like transposing Ennius’, ‘When hideous Discord
Shattered the iron posts and the gateways of War.’
Even dismembered you’ll find there the limbs of a poet.

§ 1.4.63  Enough! We’ll ask some other time if it’s poetry.
The only question for now is whether you’re right
To view such things with suspicion. Sulcius
And Caprius prowl about zealously armed with writs:
And, terribly hoarse, are a terror to thieves: but a man
With clean hands who lives decently, scorns them both.
Even if you’re a Caelius or Birrius, a thief,
I’m not Caprius or Sulcius: so why fear me?
No stall or pillar will offer up my little books
To the sweaty hands of the mob, and Hermogenes:
I only recite them to friends, and only when pressed,
Not anywhere, not to anyone. There are plenty
Who read out their works in the Forum, or baths:
(How nicely the vaulted space resonates to the voice!)
It delights the inane, who never consider, whether
Time and taste are right. ‘But you take delight in wounding
And you work your evil zealously.’ Where did you find
That spear to throw? Is anyone I know the author
Of that? The man who will slander an absent friend,
And fails to defend him from others’ attacks,
Who’s after others’ laughter, and the name of a wit,
And invents things he’s never seen, and can’t keep
A secret: beware of him, Rome, he’s a blackguard.

§ 1.4.86  When there’s a party of four and only three couches,
Often there’s one guest who likes to besprinkle the rest
Excluding his host who supplies the water: his host too
Though later when, drunk, truthful Liber unlocks the heart.
Yet you, hating blackguards, consider him charming,
Direct, and urbane. Did I seem then spiteful or vicious,
If I laughed because stupid Rufillus smells of pastils,
Gargonius of goat? If someone while you were there
Gave a hint of Petillius Capitolinus’ thefts,
You’d be sure to defend him as is your habit:
‘Capitolinus has been a dear friend and companion
Since childhood: he’s done me many a favour when asked,
I’m delighted he’s living freely here in the City:
But I’m still amazed at how he escaped that trial.’
That’s the black ink a cuttlefish squirts, now, that’s
Pure venom. Let such nastiness be far from my work,
And well before that from my heart: if there’s anything
I can truly promise, I’ll promise you that. If I
Speak too freely, too lightly perhaps, you’ll allow me
That liberty, please. The best of fathers formed me:
So I’d flee from vice, he’d point it out by example.

§ 1.4.107  When he exhorted me to be thrifty and careful,
So as to live in content on what he’d leave me:
He’d say: ‘Don’t you see how badly young Albius
Is doing, how poor Baius is? A clear warning: don’t
Wilfully squander your birthright.’ Or steering me
From base love of a whore: ‘Don’t take after Scetanus.’
Or from chasing an adulteress where I might enjoy
Free sex: ‘Not nice, Trebonius’ name now he’s caught:
Some wise man can tell you why it’s better to seek
Or avoid something: it’s enough for me that I follow
The code our ancestors handed down, and while you
Need a guardian I’ll keep your reputation and health
From harm: then when age has strengthened your body
And mind, you can swim free of the float.’ With words
Such as these he formed the child, whether urging me on
If I acted, with ‘You’ve an authority for doing this,’
Pointing to one of the judges the praetor had chosen:
Or forbidding it, with ‘Can you really be doubtful
Whether it’s wrong or harmful, when scandal’s ablaze
About that man and this?’ As a neighbour’s funeral scares
The sick glutton, and makes him diet, fearful of dying,
So tender spirits are often deterred from doing wrong
By others’ shame. That’s why I’m free of whatever vices
Bring ruin, though I’m guilty of lesser failings, ones
You might pardon. Perhaps growing older will largely
Erase even these, or honest friends, or self-reflection:
Since when my armchair welcomes me, or a stroll
In the portico, alert to myself: ‘It’s more honest,’
I’ll say, ‘if I do that my life will be better: that way I’ll
Make good friends: what he did wasn’t nice: could I ever
Unthinkingly do something similar one day?’ So
I advise myself with my lips tight closed: and when I’m free
I toy with my writings. It’s one of the minor failings
I mentioned: and if it’s something you can’t accept,
A vast crowd of poets will flock to my aid (for we
Are by far the majority), and just as the Jews do
In Rome, we’ll force you to join our congregation!

§ 1.5.1  Satire V – Journey to Brundisium
Leaving great Rome for Aricia, a modest inn
Received me: the rhetorician Heliodorus
Was with me, most learned of Greeks: to Forum Appi,
Then, crammed with bargemen and stingy innkeepers. We
Took this lazily in two days, though keener travellers
Than us take only one: the Appian’s easier taken slow!
Here because of the lousy water my stomach declares
War on me, and I wait impatiently while the others
Dine. Night’s already beginning to shroud the earth
In shadow, and sprinkle the heavens with stars.
Then its slaves shouting at bargemen, bargees at slaves:
‘Pull, over here!’ ‘You’re loading three hundred?’ ‘Oy,
That’s enough!’ A whole hour slips by, as they harness
The mule, and collect the fares. The marsh frogs and damned
Mosquitoes keep away sleep, while the boatman, drowned
In sour wine, sings of the girl left behind and a traveller
Joins in. At last the traveller tires and falls asleep,
And the lazy boatman turns out his mule to feed,
Ties the rope to a stone, and snores away on his back.
When day dawns we discover our vessel’s not yet
Under way, till a hot-headed traveller leaps out
thumping mule and man head and sides with a branch
Of willow. At ten we are barely landed at last
And wash our faces and hands in Feronia’s stream..
Then after breakfast we crawl on three miles to Anxur.
Perched on its cliffs that gleam brightly far and wide.
Here Maecenas the best of men’s going to meet us,
An envoy, with Cocceius, on very important business,
Both of them used to settling feuds between friends.
Here I smear some black ointment on my sore eyes.
Meanwhile Maecenas arrives, and with him Cocceius
And Fonteius Capito, a man so perfectly finished
That Antony owns to no greater friend than he.

§ 1.5.34  We left Fundi with pleasure, and Aufidius
Luscus its ‘praetor’, mocking that clerk’s mad reward,
Bordered robe, a broad-striped tunic, burning charcoal.
Tired out we halted at the Mamurra’s town next,
Murena offered shelter, Capito the cooking.
The next day’s sunrise brings great joy: since Plotius
Varius, and Virgil, meet us at Sinuessa: no more
Shining spirits did earth ever bear, and no one
Could be more dearly attached to them than I.
O what embraces there were there, and what delight!
In health, nothing compares for me with friendship’s joy.
A small villa by the Campanian Bridge offered us
Shelter, and the officers, as required, salt and fuel.
Then to Capua, where the mules shed their loads early.
Maecenas is off for sport, Virgil and I for sleep:
Those ball-games are bad for sore eyes and stomachs.
Then Cocceius’ well-stocked villa welcomes us,
That overlooks the inns of Caudium . Now, Muse,
Tell briefly of the fight ‘twixt Sarmentus the jester,
And Messius Cicirrus, and who their fathers were
That joined the fray. Messius of famous Oscan stock:
Sarmentus’ owner, she’s still alive: from such ancestry
Did they join battle. Sarmentus first to strike: ‘A horse,
I say, a wild one, is what you resemble.’ We roar,
Messius tosses his head, cries: ‘Yea’. Sarmentus
Says: ‘Oh, if your forehead wasn’t short of a horn
Imagine what you could do, when you threaten us
Mutilated so!’ An ugly scar marred his hairy brow
On the left, you see. Mocking his ‘Campanian’ warts
And joking about his face, he begged him to dance
A dance of the Cyclopean shepherd, while saying
He’d not need a mask or the thick soles of Tragedy.
Cicirrus struck back fiercely: ‘What about that chain
He owed to the Lares? Though a clerk, his lady’s power
Was no less: and finally he asked why he’d run away
Since a bag of meal a day’s enough for the slight and lean.
So we prolonged that supper with all our laughter.

§ 1.5.71  On, straight, to Beneventum: where our busy host
Nearly burned the inn turning lean thrushes over the fire:
As Vulcan’s fumes dispersed through the ancient kitchen,
Darting flames licked right up to the roof overhead.
You saw scared servants and famished guests snatch food
And everyone tried to extinguish the roaring blaze.
From that point on Apulia begins to reveal
Her familiar hills to me, scorched by scirocco,
And we’d never have crossed if a villa near Trivicum
Hadn’t received us, tearful with smoke from the stove
That was burning up green wood, foliage and all.
Here like an utter fool I lay wakeful till midnight
Awaiting a cheating girl: till sleep carried me off
Thinking of sex: then a dream full of sordid visions
Wet my nightshirt and belly, lying there on my back.
From here we’re rushed on in a cart twenty-four miles,
To spend the night in a little town I can’t fit in the verse,
Though here’s a clue: they sell what’s commonly free
There, water: but the bread’s the best by far, so wise
Travellers carry a load on their shoulders for later,
‘cos it’s gritty at Canusium (and your jug’s no more
Water in) a place brave Diomed founded long ago.
Here Varius peels off, to the grief of his weeping friends.
So to Rubi exhausted we come, after we’ve travelled
A long stretch of roadway damaged by heavy rain,
Next day the weather was better, the road was worse,
Right up to fishy Bari. Then Gnatia, on whose building
The water-nymphs frowned, brought us laughter and mirth,
As it tried to persuade us that incense melts without fire
On its temple steps. Let Apella the Jew credit that,
I don’t: I’ve heard the gods live a carefree life,
And if nature works miracles then it isn’t the gods
Gloomily sending them down from their home in the sky.
Brindisi’s the end of a long road and this story.

§ 1.6.1  SATIRE VI – ON AMBITION
Maecenas, though none of the Lydians settled
In Tuscany is of nobler birth than yours,
And though your maternal and paternal grandfathers
Commanded mighty legions in days of old,
You don’t turn your nose up as most men do
At men of unknown birth, sons of freedmen like me.
When you say it’s irrelevant who a man’s father is
If he’s free born, you’re persuaded correctly
By the fact that before low-born Tullius ruled,
Many men born of insignificant ancestors often
Lived virtuous lives and were blessed with high office:
While Laevinus, scion of that Valerius from whom
Tarquin the Proud fled, driven from his throne, was never
Rated a penny higher, even in the crowd’s judgement,
Who, you know well, often grant honours stupidly
To the unworthy, and are sadly enthralled by fame,
Dazzled by titles, and ancestral busts. What about us
Then, being far, far removed from the vulgar masses?
Let us accept the people would rather put Laevinus
In office, than unknown Decius, and a censor like Appius
Would strike out my name if I weren’t the son of a freeborn
Father: rightly, for not having stuck to my own ass’s skin,
Yet Ambition drags all along bound to her glittering
Chariot, noble and lowly. What use was it Tillius for you
To resume the broad stripe you lost, becoming a tribune?
Envy grew, that of a private person would have been less,
For as soon as anyone’s crazy enough to bind black
Senatorial thongs to his legs and wear the broad stripe
On his chest, it’s: ‘Who’s this fellow? Who was his dad?’
It’s just like suffering from Barrus’ sickness, longing
To be deemed handsome, so that wherever he went
He’d incite girls’ interest in personal details, what of
His face, his ankles, his feet, his teeth, and his hair:
Well he who promises to care for the city and people,
The Empire, and Italy, and all the gods’ temples,
Forces the whole mortal world to show interest
In who was his father, and whether his mother’s low-born.
‘Do you the son of a slave, a Syrus, a Dama, a Dionysius,
Dare to hand us over to Cadmus or hurl us from the Rock?’
‘But, Novius, my colleague’ he cries, ‘is only a row behind
In the theatre, he’s what my father was.’ ‘And does that
Make you Messalla or Paulus? If two hundred carts
In the Forum meet three big funerals, this Novius at least
Shouts loud enough to drown out the horns and trumpets.’

§ 1.6.45  I turn again to myself, now, the son of a freedman,
Denounced by everyone as ‘the son of a freedman’
Because I’m your close friend now, Maecenas, earlier
Because as tribune I commanded a Roman legion.
Yet the situations differ, since one who’d begrudge
Me honours, shouldn’t begrudge me your friendship,
Given you’re careful only to patronise the worthy,
Men free of self-seeking. I can’t say I was lucky
Enough to win your friendship just by good fortune:
It wasn’t luck indeed that revealed you to me: Virgil,
The best of men, and Varius, told you what I was.
Meeting you face to face, I stuttered a few words,
Mute diffidence preventing me saying more.
I didn’t claim to be born of a famous father,
Or rode a horse round a Tarentine estate,
I said what I was. You said little, as is your way,
I left: nine months later you recalled me, asking
Me to be one of your friends. And I think it’s fine
To have pleased you, who separate true from false,
Not by a man’s father but by his pure life and heart.

§ 1.6.65  Still, if my character’s flawed by only a few little
Faults, and otherwise sound, just as you’d censure
Perhaps the blemishes scattered over a noble body:
And if no one can accuse me in fairness of greed,
Meanness, debauchery, if in truth, in my own praise,
I live purely, innocently, loved by my friends:
It’s due to my father, who though poor, on poor land,
Wouldn’t send me to Flavius’ school, where fine lads
The sons of fine centurions went with their tablets
And satchel hanging from their left shoulders, carrying
Their eight coins as fee on the Ides of each month,
But instead he bravely whisked his son off to Rome,
To be taught the skills senator or knight would expect
To be taught his son. And if anyone noticed my clothes
And attendants, a big city scene, he’d have thought
The expenses were being met from ancestral wealth.
He, the truest of guardians, toured all my teachers
With me, too. What can I say? He guarded my innocence,
And that’s virtue’s prime ornament, he kept me free
Not only from shameful actions, but slander as well.
He wasn’t afraid someone might call him foolish
If I’d only followed the trade of an auctioneer
Or collector of dues like himself: I’d not have complained
As it turns out I owe him still greater praise and thanks.

§ 1.6.89  I’d be insane to be ashamed of such a father,
So I won’t defend myself by saying, as many do,
It’s not their fault they don’t have well-known, noble
Parents. What I say and think are quite otherwise:
If at a certain point in our lives Nature required us
To relive the past, and choose what parents we wished,
To suit our pride, then I’d still be content with mine,
I’d not want parents blessed with rods and thrones.
The crowd would think me mad, you sane perhaps,
For not wishing to carry an unaccustomed burden.
I’d be forced at once to acquire more possessions,
Welcome more visitors, take one or two companions
So as not to travel or visit the countryside alone,
Keep more horses and grooms, take a wagon-train,
While now I can ride on a gelded mule to Tarentum,
Its flanks galled by a heavy pack, withers by the rider:
No one will call me vulgar, Tillius the praetor,
As they do you, when five slaves, on the Tibur road,
Follow behind you with a chest, and a case of wine.

§ 1.6.110  In this, in a thousand other ways, I live in more
Comfort than you, my illustrious Senator.
I wander wherever I choose, alone: ask the price
Of cabbage and flour, stroll round the dodgy Circus
And Forum at evening: loitering by the fortune-tellers:
Then home to a dish of oilcake, chickpeas, and leeks.
Three lads serve my supper, a white slab holds two cups
And a ladle: a cheap bowl too, oil-flask and saucer:
All Campanian ware. Then to bed, with no worries
About early rising, appearing before Marsyas’ statue
With its pained face, that can’t stick Novius Junior’s.
I lie in bed till ten: then take a stroll: or after reading
Or writing work I’ll enjoy in peace later, rub myself
With oil, but not what dirty Natta steals from the lamps!
When I’m tired and the hot sun tells me to go and bathe,
I avoid the Campus and those three-way ball games.
I take a light lunch, enough to prevent me fasting
All day long, then I idle about at home. This is the life
Of those relieved of the weight of wretched ambition:
I comfort myself, this way, that I’ll live more happily
Than if grandfather, father and uncle had all been quaestors.

§ 1.7.1  Satire VII – A Battle of Wits
It’s a story I think that’s well-known to every
Chemist’s and barber’s shop, how Graeco-Roman
Persius, repaid vile, venomous ‘King’ Rupilius.
This wealthy Persius had big business interests
In Clazomenae, and a tricky lawsuit with Rex.
He was a tough, who outdid the ‘King’ in rudeness,
Arrogant, loud, his abuse so scorching it outran a Barrus
Or a Sisenna, and flashed by as swift as white lightning.
Back to Rex. When they’d failed to reach an agreement
(Since those who quarrel are all quite rightly like heroes
Who meet in battle face to face: the hostility
Between Priam’s son Hector, and angry Achilles
Was so fierce, that only death could divide them,
And for no other reason than that the courage
Of each was supreme: while if two cowards quarrel
Or ill-matched opponents fight in war, like Diomed
And Lycian Glaucus, the lesser man gives way, even
Sends gifts), while Brutus was praetor then for rich Asia,
Persius and Rupilius fought as equals, no worse matched
Than Bacchius and Bithus the gladiators, rushing
Fiercely to court, both of them wonderful sights to see.
Persius made his case: laughter from all the gathering:
He praises Brutus, he praises his staff, calls Brutus
The Sun of Asia, and all his suite health-giving stars,
Except for Rex: he’s arrived as Sirius the Dog-star,
A star that’s hated by countrymen. On he rushes
Like a wintry torrent, where an axe is never heard.
Then the ‘King’ of Praeneste, faced with that outpour
Of wit, hurled back abuse they squeeze from the vineyard,
Like a tough and indomitable vine-cutter, routing
A passer-by who shouts ‘Cuckoo, you’re pruning late!’
But Persius the Greek, drenched now with Italian vinegar,
Shouts: Brutus, by all the gods, you and your clan
Are used to finishing kings, can’t you slit this one’s throat?
Believe me, this is a task that’s perfect for you!’

§ 1.8.1  Satire VIII – Priapus and the Witches
I was once a fig-tree’s trunk, a lump of useless wood,
Till the carpenter, uncertain whether to carve Priapus
Or a stool, decided on the god. So I’m a god, the terror
Of thieves and birds: my right hand keeps the thieves away
Along with the red shaft rising obscenely from my groin:
While the reed stuck on my head frightens naughty birds,
And stops them settling here in Maecenas’ new Gardens.
Once slaves paid to have the corpses of their fellows,
Cast from their narrow cells, brought here in a cheap box.
This was the common cemetery for a mass of paupers,
Like that joker Pantolabus, and the wastrel Nomentanus.
Here a pillar marked a width of a thousand feet for graves,
Three hundred deep, ground ‘not to be passed to the heirs’!
Now you can live on a healthier Esquiline and stroll
On the sunny Rampart, where sadly you used to gaze
At a grim landscape covered with whitened bones.
Personally it’s not the usual thieves and wild creatures
Who haunt the place that cause me worry and distress,
As those who trouble human souls with their drugs
And incantations: I can’t escape them or prevent them
From collecting bones and noxious herbs as soon as
The wandering Moon has revealed her lovely face.

§ 1.8.23  I’ve seen Canidia myself, wandering barefoot
With her black robe tucked up, and dishevelled hair,
Howling with the elder Sagana: pallor making them
Hideous to view. They scraped at the soil with their nails,
Then set to tearing a black lamb to bits with their teeth:
The blood ran into the trench, so they might summon
The souls of the dead, spirits to give them answers.
There was a woollen doll there, and another of wax:
The wool one was larger to torment and crush the other.
The wax one stood like a suppliant, waiting slave-like
For death. One of the witches cried out to Hecate,
The other to cruel Tisiphone: you might have seen
Snakes and hell-hounds wandering around, a blushing Moon,
Hiding behind the tall tombs, so as not to be witness.
If I’m lying, foul my head with white raven’s droppings,
And let Julius, slim Pediatia, and that thief
Voranus come here, and shit and piss all over me.
Why tell every detail – how the spirits made shrill sad noises
As they conversed with Sagana, how the two witches
Stealthily buried the beard of a wolf, and the tooth
Of a spotted snake, how the wax doll made the fire
Blaze more brightly, and how I shuddered, a witness
To the twin Furies’ words and deeds, but had my revenge?
My buttocks of fig wood split with a crack as loud
As the sound of a bursting bladder: and off they ran
To the city. You’d have been laughing and cheering
To see Canidia’s false teeth drop, and Sagana’s tall wig,
Herbs and magical love-knots tumbling from their arms.

§ 1.9.1  SATIRE IX – A NUISANCE
By chance I was strolling the Sacred Way, and musing,
As I do, on some piece of nonsense, wholly absorbed,
When up runs a man I know only by name, who grabs
Me by the hand, crying: ‘How do you do, dear old thing?’
‘Fine, as it happens,’ I answer, ‘and best wishes to you.’
As he follows me, I add: ‘You’re after something?
He: ‘You should get to know me better, I’m learned.
I: ‘I congratulate you on that.’ Desperately trying
To flee, now I walk fast, now halt, and whisper a word
In the ear of my boy, as the sweat’s drenching me
Head to foot. While the fellow rattles on, praising
Street after street, the whole city, I silently whisper,
‘Oh Bolanus, to have your quick temper! Since I’m not
Replying, he says: ‘You’re dreadfully eager to go:
I’ve seen that a while: but it’s no use: I’ll hold you fast:
I’ll follow you wherever you’re going.’ ‘No need
For you to be dragged around: I’m off to see someone
You don’t know: he’s ill on the far side of Tiber,
Near Caesar’s Garden.’ ‘I’ve nothing to do, I’m a walker:
I’ll follow.’ Down go my ears like a sulky donkey,
When the load’s too much for his back. Then he starts:
‘’If I know anything, you’d not find a superior friend
In Viscus or Varius: who can write more, who can write
Faster than me? Who can dance more delicately?
Even Hermogenes would envy me when I sing.’
Here was my chance to break in: ‘Haven’t you a mother,
Relations who need you at home?’ ‘No, no one: they’re all
At rest.’ Fortunate people! Only I’m left. Despatch me:
Now the sad fate approaches an old Sabine woman
Uttered when I was a child, rattling her diviner’s urn:
‘No deadly poison shall slay him, no enemy blade shall destroy him,
No pleurisy carry him off, no lingering gout or cough:
Garrulous the man who’ll consume him at last: the talkers
He’ll take good care to avoid if he’s wise, as he grows older.’

§ 1.9.35  If was well after nine when we reached Vesta’s temple,
The hour, as it happened, when he was due to answer
A charge: on pain of losing his case if he didn’t appear.
‘Give me some help for a while, as you love me,’ he says.
‘Slay me if I’ve the strength for it, and I don’t know the law:
And I’ve got to go, you know where.’ ‘I’m not sure,’ says he,
Whether to abandon you or my case.’ ‘Me , please.’ ‘No, no,’
Says he, and forges ahead. I follow, it’s hard to fight
When you’re beaten. ‘How do you get on with Maecenas?’
He starts in again; ‘a man of good judgement, few friends.
No one’s used opportunity better. You’d gain
A helper, a good number two, if you’d introduce
Yours truly to him: blow me, if you couldn’t have blown
Away all the rest!’ ‘The life up there’s not what you think:
No house is freer from taint or intrigue than that one:
It never troubles me, I can tell you, if someone
Is richer than me or more learned: everyone has
His own place.’ ‘What a tale, I can hardly believe that!’
‘Well, it’s true.’ ‘You inflame my desire to get closer
To him.’ ‘Only wish: with your virtues you’ll carry
The day: he’s a person who can be won, and that’s why
He makes the first entrance so hard.’ I’ll not fail:
I’ll bribe his servants with gifts: if I’m excluded
Today, I’ll persist: I’ll search out a suitable time,
Encounter him in the street, escort him home. Life grants
Nothing to mortals without a great effort.’ While he
Rabbits on, we meet Aristius Fuscus, a dear friend
Who knows the man well. We stop. ‘Where’ve you been,
Where are you going?’ He asks, he answers. I start to
Tug at his cloak, and press on his irresponsive arms,
Nodding and winking at him to save me, the joker
Cruelly laughing in non-comprehension: I grew
Heated with anger. ‘Wasn’t there something you needed
To say in private.’ Yes I remember, I’ll tell you
At some more convenient time: it’s the thirtieth,
Sabbath: do you want to offend the circumcised Jews?’
‘Nothing’s sacred to me.’ ‘It is to me: I’m one
Of the many, somewhat weaker. Pardon: another day.’
That so black a sun had risen for me! The rascal flees
Leaving me under the knife. Suddenly we’re faced
By the plaintiff. ‘Where are you off to, you scoundrel?’
A great voice shouts, then to me: ‘Will you be a witness?’
I offer my ear. He hurries him off: clamour ensures
People come running. And that’s how Apollo saved me.

§ 1.10.1  SATIRE X – ON SATIRE
Yes, I did say Lucilius’ verses ran on stumbling
Feet. Who’s so absurd a fan of Lucilius not to
Admit it? Yet on the same page the same man’s praised
For scouring the City with all the salt of his wit.
Still, granting him that, I wouldn’t admit all the rest,
Or Laberius’ mimes would have to be called fine poetry.
It isn’t enough for your listener to crack his jaws
Laughing: though there’s a virtue still in achieving that:
Conciseness is needed, so that the thought can run on,
Un-entangled by words that weigh heavy on weary ears:
And you need a style sometimes serious, often witty,
Suiting the role now of orator now of poet,
At times the urbane man who husbands his strength
And parcels it out wisely. Ridicule usually
Cuts through things better, more swiftly, than force.
It was the mainstay of those who wrote Old Comedy,
In it, they should imitated: those whom pretty
Hermogenes never reads, nor that ape whose art
Is only his skill in singing Catullus and Calvus.
‘But it was a great achievement to blend Greek and Latin.’
O tardy students, if you think it’s wonderful
Or hard to do what Pitholeon of Rhodes achieved!
‘But a style harmoniously mixing both languages
Is more delightful, like Chian and Falernian wine.’
When you’re writing verse, I’ll ask you, or also
When you’re pleading Petillius’ long hard case?
Would you really prefer to forget home and country,
And while Pedius Publicola and Corvinus sweat
Over their cases in Latin, mingle foreign words
With your own, like the twin-tongued Canusians?

§ 1.10.31  Though born this side of the sea, I too made versicles
In Greek, but after midnight, when dreams are true,
A vision of Quirinus forbade me to do so, saying:
Your desire to swell the mighty ranks of the Greeks
Is as stupid as carrying wood to the forest.’
So while Furius, turgid Alpine poet, kills Memnon,
And muddies the head of the Rhine, I toy with these,
That won’t resound in the Muses’ temple competing
For Tarpa’s prize, nor be staged, again and again.
Fundanius, you alone of the living, delight us
With chatty comedy where the crafty whore and Davus
Cheat old Chremes: and Pollio, with a triple beat,
Sings kingly deeds: Varius marshals brave epics
Like none: and to Virgil the country-loving Muses
Have granted rare tenderness and grace. What Varro
Of Atax, and others, a few, attempted in vain,
Satire, is what I could write more effectively,
Though less well than its inventor: I’d not presume
To snatch the crown that clings to his head in glory.

§ 1.10.50  But I do say he flows muddily, often carrying
What you’d rather remove than let remain. Well,
As a scholar do you never criticise Homer?
Wouldn’t dear Lucilius mend Accius’ tragedies?
Doesn’t he mock Ennius’ less dignified verses,
Though he considers himself no greater than them?
What forbids us readers of Lucilius’ writings
To ask whether it was a harshness in himself,
Or in his times, denied more finish to his verse,
A smoother flow, he who’s content merely to stuff
His thoughts into six feet, cheerfully penning two hundred
Lines before dinner, and the same after? So Etruscan
Cassius did too, whose own nature was fiercer
Than a raging river, his shelves of books, so it’s said,
Forming his funeral pyre. Let’s agree, I admit
Lucilius was pleasant and witty, more polished
Than a maker of rough forms the Greeks never touched
And than the crowd of older poets: but he, had he
Happened to be destined to live in our age, he too
Would have rubbed away, cutting out whatever was
Less than perfect, scratching his head as he made
His verses, and often biting his nails to the quick.

§ 1.10.72  If you want to write what’s worth a second reading,
You must often reverse your stylus, and smooth the wax:
Don’t write to amaze the crowd, be content with the few.
Are you mad enough to want your poems mouthed in school?
Not I: as proud Arbuscula said when they hissed her act,
‘It’s fine so long as the knights applaud’: she scorned the rest.
Should I bother about that louse Pantilius, should I
Be tortured by Demetrius’ sneers behind my back,
Or that fool Fannius’ attack, Hermogenes’ sponge?
Only let Plotius commend me, and Varius
Maecenas, Virgil, Valgius, and the best of men
Octavius, Fuscus: let the Viscus brothers praise!
And I can name you Pollio, without flattery,
And you, and your brother, Messalla, and you,
Bibulus, Servius, and you my honest Furnius,
And many another learned friend, I’m aware
I omit: and I’d like these verses, such as they are,
To please them, grieved if they delight them less than I
Hope. But you Demetrius, you Tigellius, go carp
Among the armchairs of those female disciples!
Go boy, quickly, add these lines to my little book.

§ 2.1.1  SATIRE I – ON SATIRE AGAIN
There are those who think my satire’s too sharp, that I
Push the form beyond its proper limits: others
Think what I write is tame, that a thousand verses
A day could be churned out just like mine. Trebatius
Advise me what to do. ‘Rest.’ You mean I should write
Nothing? ‘I do.’ Perish me, if that wouldn’t be best:
But you know I can’t sleep. ‘Whoever needs sound sleep,
Should rub themselves with oil, swim the Tiber thrice,
Then, as evening falls, refresh themselves with wine.
Or if love of scribbling possesses you, bravely
Tell of invincible Caesar’s battles, you’ll win
Many a prize for your pains.’ I wish I could, dear man,
But I lack the power: not everyone can describe
Lines of bristling lances, Gauls dying, spears broken,
Or a wounded Parthian slipping off his horse.
‘You could write of the man himself, brave and just,
As wise Lucilius did of Scipio.’ I won’t fail
If that chance occurs: but unless the moment’s right
A Flaccus’ words won’t find Caesar’s ears attentive,
Stroke him wrongly, and he’ll lash out in self-defence.
‘It’s still wiser than wounding that joker Pantolabus
With bitter verses, or that wastrel Nomentanus,
Till all the unsung fear for themselves, and hate you.’

§ 2.1.24  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.

§ 2.1.47  When he’s angry, Cervius threatens law and jury,
Canidia the poison that finished off Albucius,
Turius a hefty fine if he’s the judge in court.
All use their strongest weapon to intimidate
Those they fear: forceful Nature herself requires it:
Doesn’t the wolf bare its fangs, the bull toss its horns:
How, except by instinct? Trust an elderly mother
To wastrel Scaeva: his pious hand won’t touch her:
No surprise, wolves don’t use their paws, or oxen teeth:
Honey mixed with fatal hemlock will carry her off!
To be brief: whether a tranquil old age awaits me,
Or dark-winged Death comes hovering round me,
Rich, poor, in Rome, or banished perhaps, in exile,
Whatever the nature of my life, I’ll write. ‘Lad,
I fear for your life, lest one of your powerful
Friends freeze you dead.’ Why? When Lucilius dared
To scribble the first poems penned in a style like this,
Stripping the shining surface in which men strut,
Though foul inside, was Laelius troubled by his wit,
Or Scipio who won his name at beaten Carthage?
Did they grieve for wounded Metellus, Lupus buried
By slanderous verses? Yet Lucilius satirised
The leading citizens, the people tribe by tribe,
Only truly favouring Virtue and her friends.
Why, when good Scipio and wise, gentle Laelius,
Retired to privacy from life’s crowded theatre,
They’d talk nonsense with him, relaxing freely,
While the cabbage boiled. Whatever I chance to be,
However far, in rank or wit, below Lucilius,
Envy, reluctantly, must admit I lived among
Great men, and trying to bite on something soft
She’ll sink her teeth in what’s solid. Or do you differ
Wise Trebatius? ‘No I don’t disagree, but still
Let me warn you to be careful lest by chance
You find trouble through ignorance of the sacred law:
If a man trots out false verses, then there are rights
And courts of justice.’ Yes if they are false: but suppose
They are sound and praised by Caesar? If he’s snapped
At one who deserves disgrace, he himself blameless?
‘The score will be wiped clean, you’ll be discharged.’

§ 2.2.1  SATIRE II – THE SIMPLE LIFE
Learn how great the virtue is, my friends, of plain living
(This isn’t my advice, but Ofellus’ peasant teaching,
An unorthodox philosopher, and an ‘idiot’ savant)
But not amongst the gleaming dishes on the table,
When you’re dazzled by the sight of senseless show,
And the mind tuned to sham things shuns what’s better,
Discuss it with me here before we eat. ‘But, why now?’
I’ll tell you if I can. Every judge who’s bribed weighs
The evidence badly. But when you’ve hunted hares,
Tired by a spirited horse, or when Roman army sports
Fatigue one used to all things Greek, or fast ball-games
Appeal, where hard toil’s sweetened by the competition,
Or the discus (hurl that discus through the yielding air!) –
When exercise has made you less fastidious, hungry,
Thirsty, then spurn plain food, refuse to drink the mead
Unless it’s honey from Hymettus and red Falernian!
The butler’s off, a dark and wintry sea hides its fish,
Well, bread and salt will soothe a rumbling belly. Why so?
The greatest pleasure’s not in costly flavours, it resides
In you yourself. Obtain your sauce by sweating: pallid
Diners, living bloated from excess, can’t take delight
In their ocean wrasse, or oysters, or imported grouse.

§ 2.2.23  Yet I could hardly change your wish to kiss your palate
With the peacock when it’s served, and not the pullet,
You’re seduced by vain show, a rare bird costs gold,
With its ornate tail spectacularly spread: as if it
Mattered. Do you ever eat those feathers you admire?
Does it have the same beauty when it’s cooked? The meat
Doesn’t differ between the two, yet to think that you
Prefer this to that, deceived by the appearance! Well:
How can you tell then if the pike that’s gasping here
Was caught in the Tiber or the sea, in the current near
The bridges, or the Tuscan river’s mouth? Madman,
You praise a three pound mullet you’ve to eat in portions.
It’s the size that attracts you I see, well then why not
A large pike? Because no doubt the pike’s naturally
Larger, while the mullet’s normally much smaller.
It’s a belly seldom hungry that scorns common fare.
‘I’d love to see something huge served in a huge dish,’
Cries a throat that would be worthy of the Harpies.
Come you Southerlies and spoil their fare! And yet
However fresh the boar and turbot they already stink,
Since too much richness upsets a weakened stomach,
Gorged, it much prefers radishes and bitter leaves.
Yet poor man’s food’s not wholly absent from the feasts
Of kings: cheap eggs, black olives hold their place. It’s not
So long since the auctioneer Gallonius’ serving sturgeon,
Caused a scandal. And the sea hid as much turbot, then.
Yet turbot were still safe, and storks safe in their nests,
Till a creative ‘praetor’ led you astray! So that now,
If someone proclaimed roast seagulls were tasty,
The youth of Rome, so easily seduced, would agree.

§ 2.2.53  Ofellus judges that a mean life is different
From a plain one: so it’s foolish for you to avoid
One fault and steer towards another. Avidienus
To whom the nickname of ‘the Dog’ rightly clings,
Eats olives five-years old and cornels from the woods,
And won’t decant his wine till it’s soured, you’d detest
The smell of his olive oil, yet even on birthdays
Or weddings, or other occasions, in a clean toga,
He drips it on the salad from a two-pint horn,
With his own hands, though he’s free with his old vinegar.
What mode should the wise man adopt, which of these two
Should he copy? One side the wolf, as they say, the other
The dog. Well he’ll be worldly enough not to offend us
By meanness, and cultured enough not to be wretched
In either way. He’ll neither be cruel to his slaves
Like old Albucius, when apportioning their duties,
Nor like Naevius thoughtless in offering his guests
Greasy water: that’s also a serious mistake.

§ 2.2.70  Now learn the benefits that accompany plain living.
First good health. Think how simple fare once suited you
If you want to discover how ill-assorted courses
Harm a man. As soon as you mix boiled and roast,
Or oysters and thrushes, the sweet juice will turn acid,
The thick bile will cause stomach-ache. See how pale
The diners all seem as they leave the doubtful feast!
Bloated with yesterday’s excess the body weighs down
The soul, and nails a fragment of divine spirit to earth.
But the plain-living man who eats then snatches a nap
Quick as a flash, rises refreshed for his appointed tasks.
He can still turn to a richer diet, when an annual holiday
Comes round, or he wants to fill out his slender frame,
Or when advancing age demands greater indulgence:
But if severe illness strikes you, or feeble senility,
How can you increase those indulgences you take
So much for granted while you’re young and healthy?

§ 2.2.89  Our ancestors praised boar eaten when high: not
That they lacked a sense of smell, but thinking, perhaps,
That though rank it was better kept for a guest arriving
Late, than eaten greedily by the host when still fresh.
If only time past had reared me among such heroes!
You value reputation, that fills human ears more
Sweetly than song: but huge dishes of giant turbot
Bring huge disgrace and loss: add to that the angry
Uncle, the neighbours, your self-disgust, your vain
A rope. ‘Oh, it’s fine to criticise Trausius like that,’
You say, ‘but my income’s vast and I’ve more wealth
Than a clutch of kings.’ Well then, isn’t there something
Better you can spend the surplus on? Why, when you’re
Rich, are there any deserving men in need? Why are
The ancient temples of the gods in ruins? Why, man
Without shame, don’t you offer your dear country a tithe
From that vast heap? You alone, is it, trouble won’t touch!
O how your enemies will laugh some day! In times
Of uncertainty who’s more confident? The man
Who’s accustomed a fastidious mind and body
To excess, or the man content with little, wary
Of what’s to come, who wisely in peace prepared for war?

§ 2.2.112  You’ll credit it more if I say that when I was a lad
Ofellus, as I know well, spent no more widely, then,
When his wealth was intact, as now it’s reduced.
You can see him there with his sons and herd, a solid
Tenant on his lost farm. ‘I was never one,’ he says,
‘To eat rashly on working days, no more than greens,
A shank of smoked ham, and if friends came to visit
I’d not seen for ages, or if I welcomed a neighbour
On a wet day when I couldn’t work, we dined well,
Not on fish from town, but a kid or a pullet: then
Raisins and nuts and split figs graced our dessert.
After it drinking matches with a forfeit for losing,
And with a prayer to Ceres: ‘May she raise the stalks high’,
She smoothed care from our furrowed brows with wine.
Let Fortune’s winds blow, let her stir a fresh tumult:
How can she lessen this? How much worse off have I
Or you been, my lads, since this new landlord arrived?
Nature makes no-one, not he nor I, the true owner
Of the land: he replaced us, and he’ll be replaced
Through incompetence, not grasping legal subtlety,
Or, failing all that, by the heir that outlives him.
Today it’s Umbrenus’ farm, it was Ofellus’ lately,
No one will truly own it, but it will be worked
Now by me, now another. So live bravely, as men
With brave hearts do, and confront the vagaries of fate.

§ 2.3.1  SATIRE III – ON HUMAN FOLLY
‘You write so little, Horace, you barely trouble
The copyist four times a year, always unravelling
The web you’ve woven, angered with yourself because,
Despite lots of wine and sleep, nothing’s done to speak of.
Where will it end? Yet you left the Saturnalia
To come here, well then utter something worthy of your
Promise, start now! Nothing? No use blaming your pen,
Or thumping the innocent wall as insulting to gods
And poets. Yet you’d the look of one who promised
Great and splendid things, once free, in your warm villa.
Why pack Plato and Menander, and bring old friends
Like Eupolis and Archilochus along? Do you think
You can stifle envy by neglecting your powers?
You’ll be despised, wretch! You must shun the evil Siren
Indolence, or be ready to relinquish calmly
Whatever you’ve won in better days.’ Damasippus,
May the gods shave your beard for your good advice! How
Do you know me so well? ‘Ever since all my holdings
Crashed on Janus’ exchange, and ruined my business,
I’ve dealt for others. I used to love to search for bronze
In which wily Sisyphus once washed his feet, and spot
The works that were crudely carved or roughly cast:
I’d price some statue expertly at a hundred thousand:
I was the one who knew how to buy up gardens, fine
Houses, and turn a profit: so that at crowded auctions
They nicknamed me Mercury’s friend.’ I know, and so
I’m amazed you’ve been purged of that disorder. ‘Yes,
Amazing, a new obsession drove out the old, just as
A pain in the head or side’s replaced by a heart-ache, or as
Here, comatose patient turns boxer, and strikes the doctor.’

§ 2.3.31  Have it your own way, so long as you don’t do the same!
‘Oh, dear boy, don’t deceive yourself, you’re crazed too,
Almost all are fools, if Stertinius rings true, from whom
I swiftly learnt these marvellous precepts, at that time
When he comforted me, told me to grow a sage’s beard
Be troubled no more, and forget the Fabrician Bridge:
It was when my business failed, and I wanted to shroud
My head and leap in the river: he appeared at my side,
Saying: “Beware of doing something unworthy:
You’re wrong to be tortured by shame: among madmen,
Fear to seem mad. Let me ask first what madness is:
If you alone have it, I’ll not stop you dying bravely.
Chrysippus’ Stoa, and his school, call insane all those
Whom dumb folly and ignorance of the truth drives
Blindly on. That includes nations, and mighty kings,
All but the wise. Now learn why all those who call
You insane, are every bit as foolish themselves.
It’s like a wood, where error leads men to wander
Here and there, from the true path, one off to the left,
Another off to the right, the same error both times,
But leading them in different directions: so know
You’re only as mad as the man no wiser than you
Who laughs at you, but still has a tail pinned behind.
One class of fools is afraid when there’s nothing to fear,
Lamenting that flames, rocks, rivers, obstruct their way:
Another differing, but no more wisely, rushes on
Through fire and flood. Though a dear mother, a noble
Sister, father, and wife, and kin all shout: ‘Look out,
There’s a deep ditch, there’s a high rock!’ They listen
No more than drunken Fufius did, acting out sleeping
Iliona, while twelve hundred watching, who joined with
Catienus, as ghost, cried: ‘Mother, I’m calling you!’
I’ll show you the whole world’s madness is like this.”

§ 2.3.64  “If Damasippus is mad for buying old statues:
Does that make his creditors of sound mind? So,
If I say: ‘Take this money, you needn’t return it,’
Are you mad if you take it? Or wouldn’t you be
Madder to scorn the gift kind Mercury offers?
Write ten IOU’s on Nerius: if not satisfied, add
A hundred, a thousand of crafty Cicuta’s chains:
Still slippery Proteus will escape his bonds.
Drag him to court and he’ll laugh behind his mask,
Turned boar, bird, or stone, or if he likes, a tree.
If to manage things badly is mad, while well is sane,
Then believe me, Perellius’ brain is softest
Who writes out the loan you can never repay.
Settle down then, please, and pay attention, all you
Who are pale with fierce ambition or love of gold,
Fevered by excess, sad superstition, or another
Disorder of mind: sit nearer to me while I show
That every one of you from first to last is mad.”

§ 2.3.82  “Avarice should get the largest dose of medicine,
I’d say: all of Anticyra’s hellebore for the mad.
Staberius’ heirs had to carve his wealth on his tomb,
If not they’d to entertain the masses with a hundred
Paired gladiators, at a funeral feast, to be planned
By Arrius, plus all of Africa’s corn. His will said:
‘Whether I’m right or wrong in this, don’t criticise me.’
That’s what Staberius’ proud mind foresaw, I think.
‘So what did he mean when he willed that his heirs
Should carve his wealth in stone?’ Well, he thought poverty
Was a mighty evil, all his life, and guarded against it
Strongly, so if he’d chanced to die a penny poorer,
He’d have thought that much less of himself: he thought all things,
Virtue, reputation, honour, things human or divine
Bowed to the glory of riches: that he who’s garnered them
Is famous, just and brave. ‘And wise?’ Of course, a king,
Whatever he wishes. He hoped that wealth, won as if by
Virtue, would bring him great fame. Where’s the difference
Between him and Aristippus the Greek, who in deepest
Libya, ordered his slaves who travelled more slowly
Under its weight, to unload his gold? Which was crazier?
Useless examples explain one mystery by another.
If a man bought lutes, and piled them up together,
While caring not a fig for the lute or any art:
Or, though no cobbler, bought lasts and awls: or hating trade
Ships’ sails, all would think him insane and obsessed
And they’d be right. Why is the man who hoards gold
And silver any different from them? He’s no idea
How to use his pile, fearing to touch it as sacred.”

§ 2.3.111  “If a man lay down next to a great heap of corn
Keeping watch, with a big stick, never daring
As owner, though starving, to touch a grain, but fed
Like a miser on bitter roots: if with a thousand jars,
No say three hundred thousand, of Chian and vintage
Falernian cellared away, he drank the most acid
Vinegar: if at nearly eighty years old he lay
On straw, while fine bedclothes were mouldering away
In his trunk, being eaten by roaches and moths:
Few it would seem would consider him mad, since most men
Toss and turn gripped by a similar fever. Are you
Guarding it for your son or some freedman, your heir,
You poisonous old fool, so they can drink it? Or lest
You run short? How tiny the sum you’d spend each day
If you poured better oil on your salad, or on your hair
That’s matted and thick with dandruff. If anything will do,
Why bother to lie and cheat and pilfer on every
Hand? You, sane! If you took to throwing stones at the crowd,
Or your own slaves you paid good money for, all the boys
And girls would cry ‘madman’ behind you: so is it sanity
To strangle your wife or poison your mother? Well?
No, true, you’re not doing it in Argos nor with a sword,
Murdering a mother as crazed Orestes killed his,
And maybe you think he went mad after killing her,
And wasn’t demented before that by evil Furies,
Before he warmed sharp steel in his mother’s jugular?
No, from the moment Orestes was considered
Deranged, true, he did nothing you would condemn:
He didn’t dare to attack Pylades or his sister Electra
With a steel blade, just abused them both, calling her
A Fury, him what his glittering bile suggested.”

§ 2.3.142  “The ‘pauper’ Opimius, who with his hoard of silver,
And gold, still drank coarse wine from Veii on holidays
Out of a cheap Campanian scoop, sour wine otherwise,
Once fell into a coma so deep that his joyful heir
Was already prancing around his coffers, rattling
The keys. But his faithful and quick-witted doctor
Revived him like this: he ordered a table be brought
And bags of coins poured out, and a crowd of people
To count them. That woke the patient, to whom he says:
‘If you don’t guard it, your greedy heir will possess it.’
‘While I’m alive?’ ‘If you’d live, then stir. Come on.’
‘What must I do?’ ‘You’re weak, your system will fail,
Unless you take food, strong nourishment for your belly.
Do you waver? Come, take a sip of this tisane with rice.’
‘What’s it cost?’ ‘A trifle.’ ‘What trifle’ ‘Eight-pence or so.’
‘Aaah! What difference if I die from sickness or theft!’
‘So who is sane?’ Whoever’s no fool. ‘And the miser?’
A fool and insane. ‘So whoever’s no miser is
Necessarily sane?’ Not so. ‘Why, my good Stoic?’
I’ll tell you. Suppose Craterus had said the patient
Wasn’t dyspeptic: so then is he well enough to get up?
He’d say no, his lungs and kidneys are badly infected.
Here’s a man who’s no liar or miser: fine, let him offer
A pig to his kindly Lares: he’s still bold, ambitious:
Let him sail for Anticyra, then! What difference
If sink your wealth in the deep, or never use it?”

§ 2.3.168  “They say that Servius Oppidius, by ancient
Standards rich, gave Canusian farms to his two sons,
And when he was dying called the boys to him, saying:
‘Aulus, since ever I saw you carrying your conkers,
And marbles, in a fold of your toga, gambling
Or giving them away, and you, Tiberius,
Counting them, hiding them, anxious, in corners,
I’ve feared you’d develop separate obsessions,
You, just like Nomentanus, and you, Cicuta.
So by our household gods I beg you, don’t lessen,
And you, don’t increase, what your father thinks
Is sufficient, and Nature ordains as a limit.
Furthermore, lest ambition stir you, I’ll bind you
Both, by firm oath: if either becomes an aedile
Or praetor, may he be infamous and accursed.’
Would you too waste money on gifts of beans, vetch,
Lupins, to strut in the Circus, or stand there in bronze,
Naked of land and inherited wealth, you madman?
Of course, so you can win applause that Agrippa wins,
A cunning fox imitating the noble lion.”

§ 2.3.187  “Agamemnon, son of Atreus, though we wish
To bury Ajax, you say no: why? ‘I am the king.’
As commoner, I’ll say no more. ‘My prohibition
Is also just: and if anyone thinks otherwise
I permit him to say freely what he thinks.’ Greatest
Of kings, may the gods let you take Troy and sail home.
Am I allowed then to trade in question and answer?
‘Ask away.’ Why does great Ajax lie rotting, a hero
Who often rescued the Greeks, glorious, second
To Achilles alone? Is it right Priam and his people
Exult, since burial’s denied one who denied it their sons?
‘Insane, he slaughtered a thousand sheep, shouting that he
Was killing myself, Ulysses, and Menelaus.’
And when at Aulis you, shamelessly, set your daughter
Before the altar, instead of a calf, sprinkling her head
With salted meal, were you sane? What harm did he do
Slaughtering the flock with his sword? He spared his wife
And child: he’d plenty of abuse for the Atridae,
Yet he showed no violence to Teucer or Ulysses.
‘But to free my ships stuck fast on a lee shore,
I placated the gods, in my wisdom, with blood.’
Yes, your own, you madman. ‘Mine, but not in madness.’
A man who holds wrong views, confused by the turmoil
Of evil’s considered disturbed, and whether he
Errs from anger or foolishness makes no difference.
When Ajax killed innocent lambs he was judged insane:
When you in your wisdom do wrong for empty glory,
Is your mind sound, or your swollen heart free of fault?
If a man liked to carry a sweet lamb round in a litter,
Providing it clothes, maids, gold, like a daughter,
Calling it Baby or Goldilocks, planning to marry it
To a fine husband, the praetor would issue an order
Taking control, passing his care to his saner relations.
What, then? If a man offers his daughter mute as a lamb,
Is his mind sound? You’d say not. So where there’s perverse
Stupidity, there’s the height of madness: criminals
Are madmen too: he whom glittering fame entrances
Hears the thunder of blood-loving Bellona round his head.”

§ 2.3.224  “Denounce extravagance and Nomentanus with me:
Reason will prove spendthrifts are fools and madmen.
This man, inheriting a thousand talents from his dad,
Issued an edict: fishmongers, fruiterers, fowlers,
Perfumers, all Tuscan Street’s impious crew, poulterers
And parasites, the Velabrum, all of the market,
To come to him next morn. So? They arrived in crowds.
A pimp was spokesman: ‘All I have, all that these others
Have in the house, believe me is yours, send for it now
Or tomorrow.’ Hear what the reasonable young man said:
‘You, sleep in your boots in the snows of Lucania,
So I can eat boar: you, trawl the wintry sea for fish.
I’m idle, unworthy to own so much: so take it!
You take ten: you as much: you three times more, it’s you
From whom your wife comes running at the midnight call.’
Aesopus’ son took a splendid pearl from Metella’s
Ear-lobe, and dissolved it in vinegar, clearly
Intending to swallow a million straight: was that
Saner than hurling it into the flood, or the sewer?
Quintus Arrius’ sons, equally famous brothers,
Twins in waste and wickedness, loving depravity,
Used to eat highly-priced nightingales for lunch:
How should we list them? With chalk, sane, or with charcoal?”

§ 2.3.247  “Building doll’s houses, harnessing mice to a cart,
Playing odds and evens, riding a hobby-horse:
If they delighted an adult, he’d be thought mad.
Now, if Reason can show that love is even more
Puerile than these, that it matters not whether you play
With sand like a three year old, or weep with frustration
For love of a mistress: will you, I question, do as
Polemon did when enlightened, and shed your ill tokens
As they say he did: his garters, elbow-puffs, and cravat,
Quietly removing the flowers from his neck, arrested
By the voice of his temperate master Xenocrates?
When you offer apples to a sulky child he refuses:
‘Take them, love!’ He won’t: not offered he wants them.
Is the lover who’s been shut out different, who debates
Whether to shun that house he’d visit without being
Asked: as he clings to its hated door? ‘Should I accede,
Now she asks me herself, or consider ending the pain?
She shut me out: asks me back: shall I return? No,
Not if she begs me.’ Hear the servant, wiser by far:
‘O master, things without wisdom or measure can’t be
Ruled by rhyme or reason. These are love’s evils, war
Then peace again: as changeable almost as the weather,
By blind chance fluctuating, and if anyone laboured
To make them predictable he’d no more explain them
Than if he tried going crazy by reason and rhyme.’
What? When you flick at the pips of Picenian apples,
And think love returned if you strike the arched ceiling,
You’re sane? What? When you babble from aged lips,
You’re wiser than children building doll’s houses? Add
Blood to folly, stir the flame with a sword. A day since,
When Marius stabbed his Hellas then leapt to his death,
He was crazy: or would you acquit him of being
Of unsound mind, and so accuse him of crime,
Reducing things as ever to customary terms?”

§ 2.3.281  “There once was an old freedman who fasted, and rinsed
His hands, then ran sober from shrine to shrine, and prayed:
‘Save me, me alone (it’s not much to ask, he’d add) from death,
It’s easy for all you gods!’ His hearing and sight were sound:
But as to his mind, his master when selling him,
Couldn’t vouch for that, unless he’s litigious. This crew
Chrysippus would class with mad Menenius’ clan.
A mother whose child’s been bedridden for five months, prays:
‘Jupiter, who brings and takes away our great sorrows,
If the quartan fever would leave my child, on the day
You appoint for fasts he’ll stand naked in the Tiber
At dawn.’ If chance or the doctor will see the patient
Free from all danger, his crazy mother will kill him
By having him stand on that freezing river-bank
Making quite sure that his fever returns. What illness
Has struck her mind? Superstition, fear of the gods.”
‘These were the weapons Stertinius the eighth wise man,
Gave me as his friend, so none could abuse me unscathed.
Who calls me mad will receive the same from me, in reply,
And learn to see his hidden pack of faults, that hangs behind.’

§ 2.3.300  Dear Stoic, who I pray given all your losses might
Always trade profitably, in what foolish way, since
There’s more than one, am I mad? I seem sane to myself.
‘So what? When Agave, plucks at her luckless son’s head,
And carries it off, does she even then think herself mad?’
I own to my folly (let me acknowledge the truth)
And my madness too: but tell me this, from what defect
Of mind do you think I suffer? ‘Well, listen, firstly
You’re building things, that is, imitating great men,
Though tip to toe you’re but two foot tall: and you laugh
At Turbo the gladiator’s spirit and swagger
In armour too big for his body: who’s more foolish?
Or is whatever Maecenas does right for you,
Unlike him as you are, and unfit to compete?
When the frog was away from home, then the calf trod
On her young, only one surviving to tell mum the tale
Of the huge beast that killed his kin: ‘how big’, she asked
Puffing herself up: ‘big as this?’ ‘Oh, half as big again!’
‘How about this?’ And she puffed herself up more and more.
‘Not if you were to burst,’ said he, ‘could you be as a big!’
That description is not too unlike yourself, then add
Your poetry too, that is, pour some more oil on the fire,
Verse that if ever a sane man wrote, you were sane when
You wrote yours too. And your vile temper,’ Now wait!
‘Your living beyond your means,’ Damasippus, mind your
Own business! ‘Your passion for girls, and boys, in thousands.’
O greater madman, have mercy, now, on this lesser!

§ 2.4.1  SATIRE IV – THE ART OF GOOD LIVING
Catius, where from, where going? ‘No time to stop,
I’ve got to set down new precepts, ones that outdo
Pythagoras, Anytus’ accused, and learned Plato.’
It’s wrong I confess to trouble you at so awkward
A moment, but kindly grant me your pardon, please.
If anything now is lost, you’ll soon recall it,
Whether it’s art or nature your memory’s a marvel.
‘Well, it’s a worry how to hold it all in mind,
Since it’s a subtle theme, framed in subtle language.’
Declare the teacher’s name and if he’s Roman or not.
‘I’ll tell you the precepts themselves, but hide their author.
Remember to serve eggs of elliptical shape,
Since they’re whiter and better flavoured than the round:
They’re harder-shelled and the yoke inside is male.
Cabbages grown in dry soil taste sweeter than those
From farms near town: tasteless from moist gardens.
If a guest suddenly descends on you in the evening,
To whose palate a tough fowl might not be the answer,
You’d be wise to plunge it alive in diluted Falernian:
That will tenderise it. Mushrooms from the meadows
Are best quality: others are dubious. Healthy
Each summer he’ll be, who ends his lunch with black
Mulberries, picked from the tree before the sun’s strong.’

§ 2.4.24  ‘Aufidius mixed honey and strong Falernian,
Unwisely: since one shouldn’t admit to empty veins
Anything that’s not mild: you’d do better to flood
The stomach with mild mead. If the bowels are sluggish
Mussels and common shellfish and tiny leaves of sorrel
Will clear the problem, but not without white Coan wine.
New moons swell slippery oysters but not every sea
Is richly stocked with shellfish: the Lucrine mussels
The big ones, are much better than those from Baiae,
Circeii for oysters, sea-urchins come from Misenum,
Tarentum, the home of luxury, boasts wide scallops.
No one can idly claim skill in the culinary arts,
Not without mastering first the subtle science of flavours.
It’s not enough to carry off fish from the priciest stall,
Not knowing which are better with sauce, which grilled
Will stir the flagging guest to raise his elbow once more.’

§ 2.4.40  ‘If you hate tasteless meat, let an Umbrian boar
Fed on acorns from holm-oaks flex your round dish:
Since Laurentian’s no good, fattened on reeds and sedge.
Roe-deer reared in a vineyard aren’t always edible.
The gourmet will hunt for forelegs of pregnant hare.
What the age and qualities of fish and fowl should be
Is a question previously hid from all but my palate.
There are some whose only talent is finding new pastries.
But it’s not enough to have only one specialisation:
As if one were worried solely that the wine’s not bad,
And then careless what oil was poured over the fish.
If you decant Massic wine under a flawless sky,
Any cloudiness will be cleared by the night-time air,
The bouquet that sets the nerves on edge will fade:
But its full flavour’s lost if it’s strained through linen.
Cleverly add the lees of Falernian to Surrentine,
And collect the sediment using a pigeon’s egg,
The yolk sinks to the depths with any impurity.
Fried prawns and African snails will revive the flagging
Drinker: for, after wine, lettuce floats in an acid
Stomach that prefers instead to be stimulated
And freshened by sausage and ham, in fact prefers
Something piping hot brought in from a greasy stall.
The recipe for a rich dressing is worth careful
Study. The base consists of sweet olive oil: mix in
Undiluted wine, and salt, the sort a Byzantine jar
Smells of: when it’s been boiled with chopped herbs,
And sprinkled with Corycian saffron, let it stand,
Then add the oil squeezed from Venafran olives.’

§ 2.4.70  ‘Apples from Tibur are not so well flavoured as those
From Picenum: but they look nicer. Venuculan grapes
Are best when preserved: Alban are better smoked.
You’ll find I was first to lay them out with apples,
The first to serve caviar and wine-lees, black salt
And white pepper too, sifted, on plain little dishes.
It’s a great sin to spend a fortune on market fish
And then force the sprawling things onto narrow salvers.
It turns a delicate stomach when the boy hands you
A cup with fingers greasy from eating the pickings,
Or offensive rime clings to an antique mixing bowl.
How trivial the cost of a broom, sawdust, napkins,
But how enormous the error if they’re forgotten!
Fancy sweeping mosaic floors with a dirty brush
Of palm leaves, or putting filthy covers on Tyrian
Damask, forgetting the less trouble and cost involved
The more the blame’s justified than in neglecting things
That only the tables of the rich can aspire to.’
Wise Catius, I pray by our friendship and the gods,
Whenever you go to a lecture remember to take
Me along. However trustworthy your memory,
Repeating it all, as interpreter, can’t deliver
As much delight. And there’s his face and presence, you
Having seen him think little of: but I’ve no small longing
To approach that distant fountain, and there be allowed
To imbibe the precepts for living a happy life.

§ 2.5.1  SATIRE V – LEGACY HUNTING
Answer this, too, Tiresias, add to what you’ve told me:
By what methods and arts can I hope to recover
My lost fortune? Why do you laugh? ‘So it’s not enough
For the man of cunning to sail home to Ithaca,
And gaze on his household gods?’ O you, who never lie
To any man, see how I return, naked and needy,
As you foretold, to stores and herds stripped by the Suitors:
Birth and ability are less than sea-wrack, without wealth.
‘Since, not to beat about the bush, then, you dread poverty,
Hear a way by which you can grow rich. If a thrush
Or something is given you for your own, let it fly
To where a great fortune gleams, to an old master:
Let some rich man taste your sweetest apples
Or whatever tributes your tidy farm bears you,
Before your Lar does, he’s worthier of your respect.
However great a liar he is, of no family, stained
By a brother’s blood, or a runaway, don’t refuse
If he asks you to go for a walk, take the outside.’
What, walk with some filthy slave? Not thus did I show
Myself at Troy, matched always with my betters. ‘Then,
It’s poor you’ll be.’ I can command my noble spirit
To bear it, I’ve suffered worse. Tell me, now, Prophet,
Though, how I can root out wealth and piles of money.

§ 2.5.23  ‘I’ve told you already, I’ll tell you again: fish
About slyly for old men’s wills, and if one or two
After swallowing the bait, escape your wiles,
Don’t give up hope, or abandon the art in scorn.
If a case, great or small’s debated in the Forum,
Whoever’s the rich, childless crook who summons
The better man boldly to court, you be his lawyer:
Spurn the citizen with the better reputation
Or cause, if he’s a fertile wife or an heir at home.
Say to Quintus, maybe, or Publius (sensitive ears
Enjoy their first name): “Worth makes me your friend:
I know the law’s pitfalls, I can defend a case:
I’d sooner have someone pluck out my eyes than let him
Insult you or cheat you of a nutshell: my concern’s
That you lose nothing, invite no ridicule.” Tell him
To go home and take care of his health: you be his
Lawyer: persist and adhere, even if “the glowing
Dog-star shatters dumb statues,” or Furius stuffed
With thick tripe “Spews hoar-frost on the wintry Alps.”
“Can’t you see,” someone says nudging his neighbour,
“How patient he is, how willing, a help to his friends?”
And more tunny-fish will swim up, to stock your ponds.’

§ 2.5.45  ‘In case too close attention to a childless man
Betrays you, try one whose rearing a sickly boy
He’s adopted, in noble style: creep softly towards
Your goal of being named second heir, and if fate
Sends the lad to Orcus you can usurp his place:
It’s very unusual for such a gamble to fail.
If someone hands you his will to read, decline,
And remember to push the thing far from you,
But snatch a sidelong glance at the second line
Of page one: run your eye over it quickly to see
If you’re one of many. Often a clerk cooked up
From a minor official fools your gaping raven,
Nasica the fortune-hunter’s duped by a Coranus.’
Are you mad? Or teasing, versed in obscure utterance?
‘O Laertes’ son, what I speak will prove true or not,
Great Apollo gave me that gift of prophecy indeed.’
Fine, but say what your nonsense means, if you would.
‘When a young hero, terror of Parthia, born of
Aeneas’ noble line, is mighty on land and sea,
Manly Coranus shall wed the stately daughter
Of Nasica, he who dreads paying debts in full.
The son-in-law will hand his will to his father-in-law
To read: After many a refusal Nasica
Will take it at last and scan it silently, finding
That nothing’s left to him and his, except lament.’

§ 2.5.70  ‘I’ll suggest this too: if perhaps a scheming woman
Or freedman controls some old idiot, be their ally.
Commend them, so you’ll be commended in absentia:
That helps too. But it’s best to storm the prime objective
Yourself. Does the fool scribble atrocious verses:
Praise them. Is he a lecher: don’t wait to be asked:
Hand Penelope over swiftly to your better.’
Do you think she could be induced to, she so chaste,
So honest, no Suitor tempted her from the right course?
‘Why, yes: the young men who came were sparing of gifts,
They were more eager for the cooking than the loving.
That’s why your Penelope’s chaste: but once she scents
Profit from some old man, in company with you, she’ll
Be like a bitch that won’t be scared from a juicy bone.
I’ll tell you something that happened in my old age.
A foul Theban crone willed to be carried to the grave
Like this: her body well-oiled on her heir’s bare shoulders.
Surely to see if dead she could give him the slip: I guess
He’d pressed her too hard while she was alive. Take care:’

§ 2.5.89  ‘Don’t be casual, but don’t show excessive zeal.
The garrulous offend those who are dour and moody:
Yet don’t be overly quiet. Act Davus in Comedy,
Stand there head bowed, like one with a lot to fear.
Proceed attentively: if the breeze stiffens, warn him
To cover his blessed head carefully, use your shoulder
To make a way for him through the crowd: give ear
When he chatters. Is his desire for praise a nuisance?
Praise, till he lifts his arms skywards crying: “Enough!”
Inflate the swollen bladder with overblown language.
And when he frees you from long and careful service
And, awake for sure, you hear the words: “One fourth
Shall Ulysses inherit,” let fall now and then: “Is my
Friend Dama no more?”, “Where’s one so firm and loyal?”
And weep for him a little if you can. You can hide
Any joy your face betrays. If the tomb should be left
To your discretion, don’t be mean with its construction:
Let the neighbours praise the handsome funeral. And if
An older co-heir happens to give a grave-yard cough
Say if he’d like to buy any inherited house or land
You’d be happy to knock it down to him for cash.
But Queen Proserpina calls me: live long, and farewell!’

§ 2.6.1  SATIRE VI – TOWN VERSUS COUNTRY
This was my prayer: a piece of land, not of great size,
With a garden, and a permanent spring near the house,
And above them a stretch of woodland. The gods gave
More and better. It’s fine. I ask for nothing else, O Son
Of Maia, except that you make these blessings last.
If I haven’t increased my possessions by malpractice,
If I don’t intend to reduce them by waste or neglect,
If I never stupidly make entreaties, like these:
‘O, if that odd corner were mine that spoils the farm’s shape!’
‘O, if chance would show me a pot of silver, like him
Who found treasure and bought and ploughed the same fields
That he once worked for hire, rich by Hercules’ favour!’
If what I have pleases me dearly, my prayer to you
Is: fatten the herds I own, and everything but my head,
And be my great protector just as you’ve always been!
Now that I’ve left town, then, for my castle in the hills,
What better matter for satire, and my prosaic Muse?
I’m not cursed here with ambition, leaden sirocco,
Or oppressive autumn, deathly Libitina’s gain.
Father of the Dawn, Janus if you’d prefer that name,
Under whose auspices men undertake the beginnings
Of labour and life’s toil (so please the gods), introduce
My song. In Rome you drag me off to be guarantor:
‘Up, lest someone else responds first to duty’s call!’
I have to go, even if northerlies sweep the earth,
Or winter’s narrowing circle brings a snowy day,
Then, after declaring, loudly, clearly, whatever may
Work against me, barge through the crowd, hurting the tardy.
‘What’s with you, idiot, what are you up to?’ Some wretch
Curses angrily: ‘There you go, jostling all in your way
When you’re hurrying back to Maecenas, full of him.’
That pleases me, honey-sweet I’ll not deny. But when
I reach the mournful Esquiline, hundreds of other
People’s matters buzz round me and through my brain.
‘Roscius asks you to meet before eight, tomorrow,
At Libo’s Wall.’ ‘Quintus, the clerks say be sure to return
As there’s urgent new business of common concern.’
‘Take care Maecenas stamps all these papers’ ‘I’ll try,’
Say I: ‘If you want to, you can,’ he insistently adds.

§ 2.6.40  Seven, nearer eight years have passed now since Maecenas
Began to count me among his friends, yet up to now
He’s merely been willing to let me share his carriage
When travelling, and confide nuggets like these to me:
‘What’s the time, now?’ ‘Can the Thracian Chicken beat Syrus?
‘These frosty mornings will chill you if you’re not careful.’
And whatever else it’s safe to drop in a careless ear.
All that time, every hour of the day, yours truly has
Grown more envied. If he’s watched the Games with me
Or played ball on the Campus, all cry: ‘Fortune’s child!’
Should a chilling rumour fill the streets, from the Rostra,
Whoever meets me asks my views: ‘My good friend,
Since you, so much nearer the gods, must know, have you
Heard any news of the Dacians?’ Not a thing. ‘Oh,
You’re always teasing us!’ May the gods strike me
If I have! ‘Well then, where does Caesar intend to grant
His men the land he promised, Italy, Sicily?’
When I swear I know nothing, they wonderingly take me
For a remarkably deep and reticent mortal indeed.

§ 2.6.59  Alas, the day’s wasted like this, and not without prayer:
‘O when shall I see you, my farm? When will I be free
To breathe the delightful forgetfulness of life’s cares,
Among ancient classics, with sleep and idle hours?
When will they set before me beans, Pythagoras’ kin,
And those little cabbages oiled with thick bacon-grease?
O heavenly night-time dinners, when I and my friends
Eat beside my own Lar, and feed jostling servants
On left-over offerings. Each guest drinks as he wishes
Large glasses or small, free from foolish rules, whether
He downs the strong stuff, nobly, or wets his whistle
In more carefree style. And so the conversation starts.
Not about other men’s houses in town, their country
Villas, or whether Lepos dances well or not: no,
We talk about things one should know, that matter more:
Whether it’s wealth or character makes men happier:
Whether self-interest or virtue make men friends:
And the nature of the good, and its highest form.

§ 2.6.77  Now and then Cervius my neighbour spins us a yarn,
Some apt old woman’s tale. So, if anyone praised
Arellius’ wealth but ignored his cares, he’d begin:
‘It’s said a country mouse welcomed a town mouse once
To his humble hole, the guest and the host were old friends:
He lived frugally, and was careful, but his spirit
Was still open to the art of being hospitable.
In short, he never grudged vetch or oats from his store,
And he’d bring raisins or pieces of nibbled bacon
In his mouth, eager by varying the fare to please
His guest, whose fastidious tooth barely sampled it.
At last the town mouse asks: ‘Where’s the pleasure, my friend,
In barely surviving, in this glade on a steep ridge?
Wouldn’t you prefer the crowded city to these wild woods?
Come with me, I mean it. Since all terrestrial creatures
Are mortal, and there’s no escape from death for great
Or small, then live happily, good friend, while you may
Surrounded by joyful things: mindful while you live
How brief existence is.’ His words stirred the country mouse,
Who scrambled lightly from his house: then the two
Took their way together as proposed, eager to scurry
Beneath the city walls in darkness. And now night
Occupied the zenith, as the pair of them made tracks
Through a wealthy house, where covers dyed scarlet
Glowed on ivory couches, and baskets piled nearby
Held the remains of all the courses of a magnificent
Feast, that had been celebrated the previous evening.
Once the town mouse had seated the country mouse
Amongst the purple, he rushed about like a waiter,
The host serving course after course, performing the role
Himself, and not unlike a slave first tasting what he served.
The country-mouse at ease enjoyed the change of style,
Playing the contented guest amongst all the good things,
When suddenly a great crashing of doors, shakes them
From their places. They run through the hall in fear, stricken
By greater panic when the high hall rings to the barking
Of Molossian hounds. Then says the country-mouse: ‘This
Life’s no use to me: and so, farewell: my woodland hole,
And simple vetch, safe from such scares, they’ll do for me.’

§ 2.7.1  SATIRE VII – OF SPIRITUAL FREEDOM
‘I’ve listened a while and wanted to say a few words
But being a slave daren’t.’ Are you Davus? Yes, Davus,
A servant fond of his master, quite virtuous, but not
Enough so to die young.’ Come on, then, use the freedom
December allows, since our ancestors wished it: speak!
‘Some men love vice, yet follow a constant purpose:
The majority waver, sometimes grasping what’s right,
At another time slaves to evil. Priscus, often
Noted for wearing three rings on his left hand, then none,
Lived so capriciously, he’d change his tunic each hour,
Leaving a great house he’d suddenly enter some dive
From which a plain freedman couldn’t emerge without shame:
Now he’d choose to live as a lecher in Rome, now a scholar
In Athens, born when fluid Vertumnus was changing form.
When the gout he deserved crippled Volanerius’
Finger-joints, that joker hired a man by the day
To pick up the dice, and rattle them in the cup:
Because he stuck to one vice, he was less unhappy
And preferable to one who at one moment handles
A rope that is taut, the next moment one that’s slack.’

§ 2.7.21  Does it take you all day you gallows-bird, to tell me
Where such rot leads? ‘To you, say I.’ How so, you wretch?
‘You praise the good luck and manners of men of old,
But if some god suddenly urged you to visit that era,
You’d refuse every time, ‘cos you don’t really believe
What you praise was better, or else ‘cos you’re not firm
In defence of what’s true, sticking fast in the mud while
Vainly struggling to get free. In Rome you yearn for the fields:
Once there, waverer, you laud the far town to the skies.
If by chance you’re not asked out to dinner you praise
Cabbage in peace, call yourself happy and hug yourself
For not partying, as if you’d have to be forced to go.
But Maecenas sends you a late invitation at twilight,
And you scream: “Where’s the lamp-oil? Quick, are you
Deaf?” at the top of your voice, then off you scurry.
Mulvius and your other hangers-on disperse,
With unmentionable curses aimed your way. He says,
“I’m easily goaded on by my belly, it’s true, nostrils
Twitching at savoury smells, weak, spineless, a glutton
Too, if you wish, but since he’s just the same or worse,
What cause has he to criticise me, and cloak his vices
In decorous words” What if you’re more foolish than me,
Who cost you five hundred! Don’t try and scare me pulling
Faces: control your hands and your spleen, while I preach
The lessons I learned from Crispinus’ door-keeper.’

§ 2.7.46  ‘Another man’s wife tempted you: a whore caught Davus.
Which of our sins more deserves the gallows? When Nature
Goads me fiercely, she who naked in the lamplight
Feels the flicking of a distended tail, or wildly,
With her buttocks, urges on the stallion she rides,
Won’t send me off disgraced, or anxious lest some richer
Or more handsome rival’s also watering there.
While when you’ve shed your badges of rank, your knight’s ring,
Your Roman clothes, and no longer a worthy, step out
As Dama the servant, hiding your perfumed hair
Under a cowl, aren’t you the slave you pretend to be?
Anxious, you gain admittance, body trembling with fear
That vies with your lust. What matter whether you sell yourself
To be seared by the lash, killed by the sword, or are shut
Shamefully in her mistress’ chest by a knowing maid,
Cowering, with head between your knees? Hasn’t the husband
Of a sinful wife with lawful powers over both, more
Power over her seducer? Not for her to forgo
Her clothes or rank, and take the lead in sinning, since she’s
A woman, frightened, not able to trust a lover.
It’s ‘wise’ you who goes under the yoke, committing
Self, wealth, reputation and life, to her furious lord.’

§ 2.7.68  ‘You’ve escaped! Then I hope you’ll know fear, and be
Cautious after learning your lesson: oh no, you’ll look
To the next chance of terror and ruin, you inveterate slave!
What creature that breaks its chains and flees, returns to them
So perversely? “I’m no adulterer,” you say: nor am I a thief
By Hercules, when I wisely avoid your silver plate.
Remove the risks though: and errant Nature will burst
Free of its reins. Are you my master, ruled by so many
Men and things? Touched by the rod three times, four times,
It will never release you from your miserable fears.
Add these words that carry no less weight than those:
Whether one who obeys a slave’s called a proxy, as
Your lot say, or a co-slave, what else am I to you?
Wretch, you who order me around serve another,
Like a wooden puppet jerked by alien strings.
So who is free? The wise man: in command of himself,
Unafraid of poverty, chains, or death, bravely
Defying his passions, despising honours, complete
In himself, smoothed and rounded, so that nothing
External can cling to his polished surface, whom
Fortune by attacking ever wounds herself. Can you
Claim any of this for your own? The woman demands
A fortune, bullies you, slams the door in your face,
Drowns you in cold water, then calls you back! Take your
Neck from the vile yoke. “I’m free, free,” say it! You can’t:
A despot, and no slight one, oppresses your spirit,
Pricking sharp spurs in your tired flanks, yanking when you shy.’

§ 2.7.95  ‘When you gaze like an idiot at Pausias’ paintings,
Why’s that less harmful than my admiring a fight,
With Fulvius, Rutuba, or Pacideianus, tense-kneed,
Sketched in red-chalk or charcoal, as if they were really
Battling away, thrusting and parrying and waving
Their blades? Davus is a ‘worthless idler’: while you
Pass for a ‘subtle and knowing’ judge of old masters!
If I’m tempted by hot pastry, I’m good-for-nothing:
But does your great virtuous mind turn down fine dinners?
Why is it worse for me to be slave to my belly?
Because my back pays? But do you escape scot-free
Attracted by delicacies that no small sum will buy?
Dinners endlessly pursued only turn to bitter aching,
And overtaxed legs refuse to carry your swollen
Body. Is the slave who trades a stolen bath-brush
For grapes, at nightfall, guilty? Then is he not slave-like
Who sells his estates to serve his gullet? Add that you
Can’t bear an hour in your own company, or employ
Your leisure usefully, that you evade yourself
Like a fugitive, a vagabond, trying to cheat Care
With sleep or wine: vainly: that dark companion dogs
Your flight.’ Bring me a stone! ‘What for?’ Or arrows!
‘The man’s mad, or making verses.’ Scarper, pronto! Or
You’ll end up labourer number nine on my Sabine Farm!

§ 2.8.1  SATIRE VIII – A DINNER PARTY
How was dinner with Nasidienus, the blessed?
Trying to get you as my guest yesterday I was told
You’d been drinking there since lunch-time. ‘Yes, and had
The time of my life.’ Tell me, if it’s no bother,
What dish was first to assuage your raging appetites?
‘The first was Lucanian wild-boar: caught, as the head
Of the feast kept saying, when a soft southerly blew.
Round it spiced turnips, lettuce, radishes, things that tease
A jaded palate, with water-parsnips, pickled-fish,
The lees of Coan wine. When they were cleared away
A girded lad wiped the maple board with a bright cloth,
While a second swept away whatever scraps remained
Or whatever might offend the diners: then in came
Dusky Hydaspes with the Caecuban wine, just like
An Attic maiden carrying Ceres’ sacred emblems,
And Alcon with a Chian needing no added brine.
Then said our host: “Maecenas, if Alban is more
Pleasing to you, or Falernian, well, we have both.”’
The miseries of riches! But Fundanius
I’m eager to know who enjoyed the meal with you.

§ 2.8.20  ‘I was there at the head, and next to me Viscus
From Thurii, and below him Varius if I
Remember correctly: then Servilius Balatro
And Vibidius, Maecenas’ shadows, whom he brought
With him. Above our host was Nomentanus, below
Porcius, that jester, gulping whole cakes at a time:
Nomentanus was by to point out with his finger
Anything that escaped our attention: since the rest
Of the crew, that’s us I mean, were eating oysters,
Fish and fowl, hiding far different flavours than usual:
Soon obvious for instance when he offered me
Fillets of plaice and turbot cooked in ways new to me.
Then he taught me that sweet apples were red when picked
By the light of a waning moon. What difference that makes
You’d be better asking him. Then Vibidius said
To Balatro: “We’ll die unavenged if we don’t drink him
Bankrupt”, and called for larger glasses. Then the host’s face
Went white, fearing nothing so much as hard drinkers,
Who abuse each other too freely, while fiery wines
Dull the palate’s sensitivity. Vibidius
And Balatro were tipping whole jugs full of wine
Into goblets from Allifae, the rest followed suit,
Only the guests on the lowest couch sparing the drink.’

§ 2.8.42  ‘A lamprey arrived, stretched out on a dish with prawns
Swimming round it. The host said: “This was caught before
Spawning, after they spawn the flesh is inferior.”
The dressing’s mixed like this: Venafran oil, from the first
Pressing: fish sauce made with juice of the Spanish mackerel:
Five-year old wine, from Italian slopes not Greek ones,
Added while boiling (Chian is best for this after
Boiling, nothing better): white pepper, and without fail
Vinegar made from fermented Methymnian grapes.
I was first to proclaim that green rocket, and bitter
Elecampne be simmered there too: Curtillus
Adds unwashed sea-urchins, their juice is better than brine.”
While he was speaking the wall-hanging over it collapsed
Heavily onto the dish, dragging down more black dust
Than the North-wind blows from Campania’s fields.
We feared worse, but finding there was no subsequent
Danger, uncurled. Rufus wept, head bowed, as if his son
Had met an untimely fate. What would the outcome
Have been if Nomentanus the wise hadn’t rallied
His friend: “O Fortune, what deity treats us more
Cruelly than you? How you always delight in mocking
Human affairs!” Varius with a napkin barely
Smothered his laughter. Balatro who always sneers,
Said: “It’s the mortal condition, and the returns
Of fame will never prove equal to your efforts.
To think, that to entertain me in splendour, you
Should be strained and tormented by every anxiety,
Lest the bread’s burned, the dressing’s not properly seasoned,
Each slave’s correctly dressed, and groomed for serving!
And all the other risks, the wall-hanging falling,
As it did: or your servant slipping and breaking a dish.
But as with a general, so a host: adversity
Often reveals his genius, success conceals it.”
Nasidienus replied: “The gods grant you every blessing
You pray for! You’re a fine fellow, and a courteous guest!”
He called for his slippers. Then from each couch you heard
The murmur of whispers filling those attentive ears.’

§ 2.8.79  There’s no attraction I’d rather have watched: but say
What did you find to laugh at next? ‘While Vibidius,
Was questioning the servants as to whether the jug
Was broken too since the glasses hadn’t arrive as asked,
While we were laughing at tall stories, Balatro
Prompting, back you come, Nasiedenus, with smoother
Brow, ready to remedy mishap with art. Then boys
Follow bearing a vast dish containing crane’s legs,
Seasoned with plenty of salt, sprinkled with meal,
Plus the liver of a white goose fattened on rich figs,
And shoulder of hare on its own, reckoned more tasty
Than if eaten attached to the loin. We saw blackbird,
Then, the breast charred, and pigeon without the rump,
Delightful things if the host wasn’t full of their source
And nature: in revenge we fled from him, so as not
To taste them, as if Canidia had breathed on them
With a breath more deadly than African serpents.