§ 1.1.1  BOOK I EPISTLE I – INTRODUCTION – TO MAECENAS
You, Maecenas, of whom my first Muse told, of whom my
Last shall tell, seek to trap me in the old game again,
Though I’m proven enough, and I’ve won my discharge.
My age, spirit are not what they were. Veianius
Hangs his weapons on Hercules’ door, stops pleading to
The crowd for his life, from the sand, by hiding himself
In the country. A voice always rings clear in my ear:
‘While you’ve time, be wise, turn loose the ageing horse,
Lest he stumbles, broken winded, jeered, at the end.’
So now I’m setting aside my verse, and other tricks:
My quest and care is what’s right and true, I’m absorbed
In it wholly: I gather, then store for later use.
In case you ask who’s my master, what roof protects me,
I’m not bound to swear by anyone’s precepts,
I’m carried, a guest, wherever the storm-wind blows me.
Now I seek action, and plunge in the civic tide,
The guardian, and stern attendant of true virtue:
Now I slip back privately to Aristippus’ precepts,
Trying to bend world to self, and not self to world.

§ 1.1.20  As the night is long to a man whose mistress plays false,
And the day is long to those bound to work, as the year
Drags for orphans oppressed by matron’s strict custody:
So those hours flow slowly and thanklessly for me
That hinder my hopes and plans of pursuing closely
That which benefits rich and poor alike, that which
Neglected causes harm equally to young and old.
It’s for me to guide and console myself by rule.
You mightn’t be able to match Lynceus’ eyesight,
But you wouldn’t not bathe your eyes if they were sore:
And just because you can’t hope to have Glycon’s peerless
Physique, you’d still want your body free of knotty gout.
We should go as far as we can if we can’t go further.
Is your mind fevered with greed and wretched desire:
There are words and cries with which to ease the pain,
And you can rid yourself of the worst of your sickness.
Are you swollen with love of glory: then certain rites
Renew you, purely if you read the page three times.
Envious, irascible, idle, drunken, lustful,
No man’s so savage he can’t be civilised,
If he’ll attend patiently to self-cultivation.

§ 1.1.41  Virtue is to flee vice, and wisdoms’ beginning is
Freedom from foolishness. See all your anxious thoughts
And risks to avoid what you deem the worst of evils,
Too meagre a fortune, some shameful lost election:
Eager for trade you dash off to farthest India,
Avoiding poverty with seas, shoals and flames:
Why not listen to, learn to trust, one wiser than yourself,
Cease to care for what you foolishly gaze at and crave?
What wrestler at village crossroads and country fairs
Would refuse the crown at mighty Olympia,
Given the hope, the prize of a dust-free victor’s palm?
Silver’s worth less than gold, gold’s worth less than virtue.
‘Citizens, O Citizens, first you must search for wealth,
Cash before virtue!’ So Janus’ arcade proclaims
From end to end, this saying old and young recite
Slate and satchel slung over their left shoulders.
You’ve a mind, character, eloquence, honour, but wait:
You’re a few thousand short of the needed four hundred:
You’ll be a pleb. Yet boys, playing, sing: ‘You’ll be king
If you act rightly.’ Let that be your wall of bronze,
To be free of guilt, with no wrongs to cause you pallor.
Tell me, please, what’s better, a Roscian privilege,
Or the children’s rhyme of a kingdom for doing right,
Sung once by real men like Curius and Camillus?
Is he better for you who tells you: ‘Make cash,
Honest cash if you can, if not, cash by any means,’
Just for a closer view of Pupius’ sad plays,
Or he who in person exhorts and equips you
To stand free and erect, defying fierce Fortune?

§ 1.1.70  And if the people of Rome chanced to ask me why
I delight in the same colonnades as them, yet not
The same opinions, nor follow or flee what they love
Or hate, I’d reply as the wary fox once responded to
The sick lion: ‘Because those tracks I can see scare me,
They all lead towards your den, and none lead away.’
You’re a many-headed monster. What should I follow
Or whom? Some are eager for civil contracts: some
Hunt wealthy widows with fruits and titbits, or catch
Old men in nets to stock their reserves. With many
Interest quietly adds to their wealth. Accepting that
Different men have differing aims and inclinations,
Yet can the same man bear the same liking for an hour?
‘No bay in the world outshines delightful Baiae,’
If that’s what the rich man cries, lake and sea suffer
The master’s swift attention: but if some decadent
Whim gives him the signal, it’s: ‘Tomorrow, you workmen
Haul your gear to Teanum!’ Does the Genius guard
His marriage bed in the hall: he says nothing’s finer,
Nothing outdoes the single life: if not he swears only
Marriage can suit. What knot holds this shifting Proteus?
And the pauper? You laugh! He changes his garret,
His bed, his barber, his bath, hires a boat and is just
As sick as the millionaire sailing his private yacht.
If some ham-fisted barber has cropped my hair and I
Meet you, you laugh: if I happen to wear a tired shirt
Under my tunic, or my toga sits poorly, all
Awry, you laugh: yet if my judgement contends
With itself, spurns what it craved, seeks what it just put down,
Wavers, inconsistently, in all of life’s affairs,
Razing, re-building, and altering round to square:
You consider my madness normal, don’t laugh at all,
Don’t think I need the doctor, or a legal guardian
The praetor appoints, given you, in charge of all
My affairs, are annoyed by a badly-trimmed nail
Of this friend who looks to you, hangs on your every word.
In sum: the wise man is second only to Jove,
Rich, free, handsome, honoured, truly a king of kings,
Sane, above all, sound, unless he’s a cold in the head!

§ 1.2.1  EPISTLE II – OF RIGHT LIVING – TO LOLLIUS MAXIMUS
Lollius Maximus, while you are orating, at Rome,
I’m at Praeneste re-reading Homer’s Trojan War:
Where he tells us what’s foul or fair, beneficial
Or not, more clearly than do Chrysippus or Crantor.
Listen to why I think so, if nothing prevents you.
The tale, which tells how Greece clashed in lengthy war,
With a foreign race, because of Paris’s amour,
Records the passions of foolish kings and clans.
Antenor suggests they return the woman who caused
The war: and Paris? Nothing he says can compel him –
To manage his affairs in safety, and live content!
Nestor is keen to end the quarrel of Achilles
And Agamemnon: one fired by love, both by anger.
However the princes rave, the Acheans suffer.
In-fighting, cunning, and crime, lust, and anger,
There’s error inside and outside the walls of Troy.
Conversely, in Ulysses, Homer shows us a fine
Example of what virtue and wisdom can do,
A tamer of Troy, who studied with insight, the ways
And the cities of men, and endured many hardships
As he struggled to bring his men and himself back home
Over wide seas, un-drowned by waves of adversity.
You know of the Sirens’ songs and Circe’s potions:
If Ulysses had been foolish and greedy enough
To drink these last like his comrades, he’d have become
Brutish, mindless, in thrall to a whore of a mistress,
Existing like a vile dog, or hog that loves the mire.
We are the masses, born to consume earth’s produce,
Penelope’s idle suitors, or Alcinous’ young
Men, preoccupied with tending their appearance,
Who thought it a fine thing to slumber till midday,
And soothe their cares to rest, to the sound of their lutes.

§ 1.2.32  Brigands rise in the depths of night to cut men’s throats:
Won’t you wake, to save yourself? Just as, you’ll have to
Run with dropsy, if you won’t start now when you’re sound,
So, if you don’t summon a book and a light before dawn,
If you don’t set your mind on honest aims and pursuits,
On waking, you’ll be tortured by envy or lust.
Why so quick to remove a speck from your eye, when
If it’s your mind, you put off the cure till next year?
Who’s started has half finished: dare to be wise: begin!
He who postpones the time for right-living resembles
The rustic who’s waiting until the river’s passed by:
Yet it glides on, and will roll on, gliding forever.
Wealth you want, and a fertile wife to bear children,
And uncultivated woods to be tamed by the plough:
But he who’s handed enough, shouldn’t long for more.
Houses and land, piles of bronze and gold, have never
Freed their owner’s sick body from fever, or his spirit
From care: if he wants to enjoy the goods he’s gathered
Their possessor must be well. House and fortune grant
As much pleasure to one who’s full of fear and craving
As painting to sore eyes, poultice to gouty joint,
Or lute to ears that ache from accumulated wax.
Unless the jar is clean whatever you pour in sours.

§ 1.2.55  Scorn pleasures: the pleasure that’s bought with pain does harm.
The greedy always want: set fixed limits to longing.
The envious grow thin while their neighbours fatten.
Sicilian tyrants invented no worse torture
Than envy. The man who fails to control his anger,
Rushing to scourge the hated and un-avenged by force.
Will wish undone what resentful feelings prompted.
Anger’s a brief madness: rule your heart, that unless
It obeys, controls: and check it with bridle and chain.
Its master trains a tender-necked colt that will learn
To take the path its rider directs: a hunting dog
Works the woods from the first moment it barks
At a deer’s hide in the yard. While you’re still a boy,
And pure-hearted, drink in my words, trust your betters.
A jar will long retain the odour of what it was
Dipped in when new. But if you delay or rush onwards
I don’t wait for the slow, or play follow my leader!

§ 1.3.1  EPISTLE III –PURSUE PHILOSOPY – TO JULIUS FLORIUS
Julius Florus I’m anxious to know whereabouts
Augustus’ stepson Tiberius is campaigning.
Does Thrace entertain you, the Hebrus, constrained
By bonds of snow, the straits between the two towers,
Or Asia Minor with its fertile plains and hills?
What works are his learned staff penning? This too,
Who’s chosen to record Augustus’ initiatives?
Who’s proclaiming war and peace to distant ages?
What about Titius, soon to arrive on Roman lips?
He’s dared to disdain the common ponds and streams,
Unafraid of drinking from the Pindaric source.
How is he? Does he speak of me? Blessed by the Muse,
Does he work to fit Theban measures to Latin lyres,
Or is he raging and thundering in tragic mode?
What’s Celsus doing? He was warned, and he often
Needs warning, to depend more on inner resources,
And keep from fingering the books Apollo’s received
For the Palatine library, lest when the birds some day
Flock to reclaim their plumage, the little crow stripped
Of his stolen colours is jeered. And what do you dare?
What thyme do you buzz among? You’ve no small gift,
It’s not coarse, or uncultivated, or unsightly.
You’ll bear first prize, the victor’s ivy, whether you whet
Your tongue for the courts, or advise on civil law,
Or compose delightful verse. Yet if you could shed
Your care, that cold compress, you could travel
To the place where heavenly wisdom leads you.
Let us, great or small, further this task, these studies,
If we wish to be dear to our country and ourselves.
Reply concerning this too, do you care as much as
You should for Munatius: or does your friendship
Badly stitched, knit together in vain then tear apart?
Yet, whether it’s your hot blood or your inexperience
Spurs on you wild and untamed horses, and wherever
You may be, both too noble to break brotherhood’s bond,
A sacrificial heifer’s fattening, for your return.

§ 1.4.1  EPISTLE IV – CARPE DIEM – TO ALBIUS TIBULLUS
Tibullus, sincere judge of my Satires, what shall I
Say you’re doing in your native country at Pedum?
Writing something to outdo Cassius of Parma’s pieces,
Or creeping about silently in healthy woodland,
Thinking of all that belongs to the wise and good?
You were never just a body, lacking in feelings:
The gods gave you beauty, wealth, the art of enjoyment.
What more would a nurse desire for her sweet darling
Than wisdom, the power to express what he feels,
With a generous share of kindness, health and fame,
An elegant mode of life, and no lack of money?
Beset by hopes and anxieties, indignation and fear,
Treat every day that dawns for you as the last.
The unhoped-for hour’s ever welcome when it comes.
When you want to smile then visit me: sleek, and fat
I’m a hog, well cared-for, one of Epicurus’ herd.

§ 1.5.1  EPISTLE V – A DINNER INVITATION – TO TORQUATUS
If you can bear to recline at dinner on a couch
By Archias, and dine off a modest dish of greens,
Torquatus, I’ll expect to see you here at sunset.
You’ll drink wine bottled in Taurus’ second term,
Between marshy Minturnae, and Mount Petrinum
Near Sinuessa. If you’ve better, have it brought,
Or obey orders! The hearth’s bright, the furniture’s
Already been straightened. Forget airy hopes, the fight
For wealth, and Moschus’ case: tomorrow, Caesar’s birthday
Gives us a reason for sleeping late: we’re free to spend
A summer’s night in pleasant talk with impunity.
What’s the use of my fortune if I can’t enjoy it?
The man who scrimps and saves on behalf of his heirs,
Too much, is next to mad. I’ll start the drinking, scatter
Flowers, and even allow you to think me indiscreet.
What can’t drunkenness do? It unlocks secrets, and makes
Secure our hopes, urges the coward on to battle,
Lifts the weight from anxious hearts, teaches new skills.
Whom has the flowing wine-bowl not made eloquent?
Whom constrained by poverty has it not set free?
Here’s what, willing and able, I commit myself
To provide: no dirty seat-covers, no soiled napkins
To offend your nose, no plate or tankard where you can’t
See yourself, no one to carry abroad what’s spoken
Between good friends, so like may meet and be joined
To like. I’ll have Butra and Septicius for you,
And Sabinus unless he’s detained by a prior
Engagement, and a prettier girl. There’s room too
For your ‘shadows’: but goatish smells spoil overcrowded
Feasts. You reply with how many you want, then drop
Your affairs: out the back, evade the client in the hall!

§ 1.6.1  EPISTLE VI – OF VIRTUE – TO NUMICIUS
To marvel at nothing, Numicius, that’s almost
The only thing can make and maintain happiness.
The sun up there, the stars, the seasons, going past
In unerring flow, some can watch unmoved by awe:
Then how do you think earth’s gifts might be viewed,
Or those of the sea, that make far-off Arabia
And India wealthy, or our dear Romans’ gifts,
Theatricals, applause: with what eyes and feelings?
Conversely he who fears them marvels as much
As the man who longs for them: excitement’s troubling
Either way where some unexpected vision startles both.
What matter whether he joys or grieves, desires or fears,
If, seeing something better or worse than expected,
A man’s gaze is fixed, his mind and body both numbed?
Let the wise man be called mad, the just unjust, if he
Pursues Virtue herself beyond what suffices.
Go on now, admire antique bronzes, silver, marble,
Works of art, marvel at gems and Tyrian dyes:
Delight in a thousand eyes watching you as you speak:
Rush to the Forum with vigour early, get home late,
Lest that Mutus reaps the richer crop from his fields,
His wife’s dower, and (the shame, he’s of meaner birth too!)
Seems more of a marvel to you, than you to him.
Whatever’s under the earth Time will bring to light,
Burying and hiding what glitters. Though Agrippa’s
Colonnade and the Appian Way note your face well,
You still must go down where Numa and Ancus have gone.

§ 1.6.28  If your lungs or kidneys were attacked by cruel disease,
You’d seek relief from the disease. You wish to live well:
Who does not? If it’s virtue alone achieves it, then
Be resolute, forgo pleasure. But if you consider
Virtue’s only words, a forest wood: then beware
Lest your rival’s first to dock, lest you lose Cibyra’s
Or Bithynia’s trade. Cleared a thousand, and another?
Then add a third pile, round it off with a fourth.
Surely wife and dowry, loyalty and friends, birth
And beauty too are the gifts of Her Highness Cash,
While Venus and Charm grace the moneyed classes.
Don’t be like Cappadocia’s king, rich in slaves
Short of lucre. They say Lucullus was asked
If he could lend the theatre a hundred Greek cloaks.
‘Who could find all those? he answered, ‘but I’ll see,
And send what I’ve got’. Later, a note: ‘It seems at home
I’ve five thousand: take any of them, take the lot’
It’s a poor house where there isn’t much to spare,
Much that evades the master, benefits his slaves.
If wealth alone will make you happy, and keep you so,
Be first to strive for it again, and last to leave off.

§ 1.6.49  If grace and favour promote the fortunate man,
Let’s buy a slave to remind us of peoples’ names,
Poke us in the ribs, prompt us to offer a handshake
Across the way: ‘He’s Fabian power, he’s Veline:
He can confer the rods and axe, or ill-naturedly
Snatch away the ivory chair just as he wishes.’
Add ‘Brother!’ ‘Father!’ Adopt them cheerfully, by age.
If he lives well who dines well: it’s daybreak, let’s go
Wherever the palate leads us: let’s hunt and fish
As Gargilius once did, sending his slaves with nets
And spears through the crowd in the packed Forum,
So that one mule of his train could carry away
A boar he’d bought, watched by everyone. Swollen
With undigested food, forgetful of what’s decent
Or not, let’s bathe, worthy of Caere, or Ulysses’
Vile Ithacan crew preferring forbidden pleasures
To their home. If there’s no joy sans love and laughter,
As Mimnermus holds, then live for love and laughter.
Long life! Farewell! And frankly, if you know better
Pass it on: if not, like me make use of the above.

§ 1.7.1  EPISTLE VII – A REPLY – TO MAECENAS
I promised I’d only stay a week in the country,
I’m a liar, I’ve been missing all August. And yet
If you want me sound and in good health, Maecenas,
As you indulge me when I’m ill, you’ll indulge me
When I fear illness, when heat and the early figs
Honour the undertaker with dark attendants,
When pale fathers, fond mothers, fear for their children,
When dutiful zeal, the petty affairs of the Forum,
Bring on feverish bouts, break open sealed wills.
And if winter blankets the Alban fields in snow
Your poet will head for the sea, take care of himself,
Curl up and read: and, dear friend, if you’ll allow him,
He’ll see you again, with the breeze and the first swallow.
You’ve made me wealthy, not like a Calabrian host
Inviting one to try those pears: ‘Please, eat some.’ ‘I’m full.’
‘Well take them with you, as many as you like.’ ‘Too kind.’
‘They’ll be welcome if you take them for your little boys.’
‘I’m as grateful as if I’d been sent away weighed down.’
‘As you wish: you’re leaving them for the pigs’ to guzzle.’
Lavish fools make gifts of what they despise and dislike:
They yield, and will forever yield, a crop of ingratitude.
The wise, and good, will stand ready to help the worthy,
While always knowing how real and false coins differ.
I’ll show myself worthy too, of your praiseworthy deed.
But if you wish me never to leave your side, you’ll need
To grant me strong lungs again, those black curls that hide
The brow: restore sweet conversation, graceful laughter,
Laments over the wine about pert Cinara’s flight.

§ 1.7.29  A slim little fox once crept through a narrow gap
Into a corn bin, and after eating the vermin,
Tried, in vain, to get free, his belly swollen. ‘If you,’
Said a weasel nearby, ‘desire to escape from there,
Return, lean, to the tiny gap, the lean ‘you’ slipped through.’
If I’m reproached with this tale, I’ll renounce all I have:
I don’t praise the poor man’s rest when I’m glutted on fowl,
Yet wouldn’t lose freedom and peace for Arabia’s wealth.
You’ve often praised reticence, well the ‘king’ and ‘father’
You’ve heard to your face, is no less true when far off.
Try me, and see if I could cheerfully return your gifts.
Telemachus, long-suffering Ulysses’ son, gave
No bad answer: ‘Ithaca’s no fit place for horses,
It hasn’t the wide, flat plains, it isn’t rich in grasses:
Son of Atreus, I refuse gifts fitter for you.’
Less for the lesser: not royal Rome, but Tibur
The free, or peaceful Tarentum, please me now.

§ 1.7.46  Philippus the famous lawyer, one both resolute
And energetic, was heading home from work, at two,
And complaining, at his age, about the Carinae
Being so far from the Forum, when he noticed,
A close-shaven man, it’s said, in an empty barber’s
Booth, penknife in hand, quietly cleaning his nails.
‘Demetrius,’ (a boy not slow to obey his master’s
Orders) ‘go and discover where that man hails from,
Who he is, his standing, his father or his patron.’
Off he goes, and returns to say the man’s Volteius
Mena, a respectable auctioneer, not wealthy,
Knowing his time to work or rest, earn or spend,
Taking pleasure in humble friends and his own home,
And sport, and the Campus when business was over.
‘I’d like to hear all that from his own lips: invite him
To dinner.’ Mena can scarcely believe it, pondering
In silence. To be brief, he replies: ‘No thank you.’
‘Does he refuse?’ ‘The rascal has refused, he’s either
Insulting you or afraid.’ Next morning, Philippus
Finds Volteius selling cheap goods to working folk,
And gives him a greeting. He offers business
Commitments and work as his excuse to Philippus
For not having come to his house that morning, in short
For not paying his respects. ‘Consider yourself
Forgiven, so long as you dine with me today.’
‘As you wish.’ ‘Come after nine then: now work, increase
Your wealth.’ At dinner he chattered unguardedly
And then was packed off home to bed. After that he was
Often seen to race like a fish to the baited hook,
A dawn attendant, a constant guest, so was summoned
To visit the country estate when the Latin games
Were called. Pulled by the ponies he never stops praising
The Sabine soil and skies. Philippus watches and smiles,
And seeking light relief and laughter from any source,
Gives him seven thousand sesterces, offers a loan
Of seven more, and persuades him to buy a small farm.
He buys it. Not to bore you with an over-long, rambling
Tale, the city-dweller turns rustic, rattling on about
Furrows, and vineyards, stringing his elm-trees, killing
Himself with zeal, aged by his passion for yields.
But after his sheep are lost to theft, goats to disease
The crops have failed, the ox is broken by ploughing,
Pricked by his losses, in the depths of night, he grabs
His horse, and rides to Philippus’ house in a rage.
When Philippus sees him, wild and unshaven, he cries:
‘Volteius, you look rough, and seem to be sorely tried.’
‘Truly, patron, call me a miserable wretch,’ he said,
‘If you want to call me by my true name. I beg you,
Implore you, by your guardian spirit, your own right hand,
Your household gods, give me back the life I once had!’
When a man sees by how much what he’s left surpasses
What he sought, he should swiftly return to what he lost.
Every man should measure himself by his own rule.

§ 1.8.1  EPISTLE VIII – OF ILL HEALTH – TO CELSUS ALBINOVANUS
Muse, at my request, carry greetings and good wishes
To Celsus Albinovanus, Tiberius’ scribe
And friend. If he asks how I am, say despite all good
Intentions, I live a life that’s neither good nor sweet:
Not that hail’s crushed my vines, heat blighted the olives,
Nor that my herds fall ill with disease in far pastures:
But much less healthy in mind than I am in body
I choose not to listen or learn how to ease my ills:
Quarrelling with true doctors, irritable with friends,
Who come running to ward off some fatal lethargy:
I chase what harms me, flee what I know will help:
Restless, wanting Tibur in Rome, Rome at Tibur.
Next, ask how he is, Muse, how he and his affairs
Are doing, how he’s liked by the prince and his staff.
If he says, ‘Fine,’ show pleasure first, but later
Remember to drop these words of advice in his ear:
‘As you bear success, dear Celsus, so we’ll bear you.

§ 1.9.1  EPISTLE IX – AN INTRODUCTION – TO TIBERIUS
Septimius alone knows, of course, Tiberius,
How much you think of me, for when he begs, no, forces
Me with prayers, to try to praise and present him to you
As one worthy of choice for your noble household
And intentions, thinking I fill a close friend’s place,
He sees and knows better than I what power I may have.
I gave him many reasons why I should be excused:
But feared to be thought to have minimised my role,
Hiding my true influence, just to oblige myself.
So to avoid the accusation of a worse crime,
I’ve stooped to trying to win by urbane effrontery.
Yet if you endorse lack of modesty at a friend’s request,
Admit him to your circle, know he is fine and brave.

§ 1.10.1  EPISTLE X – TOWN VERSUS COUNTRY – TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS
To Fuscus the city-lover I the country-lover
Send greetings. To be sure in this one matter we
Differ much, but in everything else we’re like twins
With brothers’ hearts (if one says no, so does the other)
And we nod in agreement like old familiar doves.
You guard the nest: I praise the streams and woods
And the mossy rocks of a beautiful countryside.
In short I live and I reign, as soon as I’ve left
What you acclaim to the skies with shouts of joy,
Seeing I flee sweet wafers like a priest’s runaway
Slave: for it’s bread I want now not honeyed cakes.
If we all should live in conformity with Nature,
And begin by choosing a site to build a house,
Do you know anywhere better than the country?
Where are the winters milder? Where does a more welcome
Breeze temper the Dog-Star’s rage and the Lion’s charge.
When maddened he’s felt the Sun’s piercing darts?
Where does Care’s envy trouble our slumber less?
Is grass poorer in scent or beauty than Libyan stone?
Is water that strains to burst lead pipes in city streets
Purer than that which sparkles murmuring down the stream?
Why, you yourself nurture trees among marbled pillars,
And admire a house with a prospect of distant fields!
Drive Nature off with a pitchfork, she’ll still press back,
And secretly burst in triumph through your sad disdain.

§ 1.10.26  The man unable to separate false from true.
Will suffer no less certain or heart-felt a loss,
Than he who lacks the skill to distinguish fleeces
Soaked in Aquinum’s dye, from Sidonian purple.
Those who’ve been quick to enjoy a following wind,
Are wrecked when it veers. You’ll be unwilling to lose
What you admire. Avoid what’s grand: and you’ll outrun
Kings, and companions of kings, in the race of life.
The stag could always better the horse in conflict,
And drive him from open ground, until the loser
In that long contest, begging man’s help, took the bit:
Yet, disengaged from his enemy, as clear victor,
He couldn’t shed man from his back, the bit from his mouth.
So the perverse man who forgoes his freedom, worth more
Than gold, through fear of poverty, suffers a master
And is a slave forever, by failing to make much
Of little. When a man’s means don’t suit him it’s often
Like a shoe: too big and he stumbles, too small it chafes.
You’ll live wisely, Aristius, if you’re contented
With your fate, and won’t let me go unpunished if I
Seem to be restlessly gathering more than I need.
The money we hoard is our master or our servant:
The twisted rope should trail behind, not draw us on.
I’m writing to you from the back of Vacuna’s
Crumbling shrine, happy, except that you’re not here too.

§ 1.11.1  EPISTLE XI – OF PEACE OF MIND – TO BULLATIUS
What did you think of Chios, dear Bullatius,
Or the famous Lesbos? What of beautiful Samos?
What of Croesus’ royal Sardis, Smyrna and Colophon?
Better or worse than claimed, are they all worthless, beside
The Campus and Tiber’s stream? Or are you set on one
Of Attalus’ cities, or weary of roads and seas praise
Lebedus? You know Lebedus: even more empty
Than Gabii or Fidenae! Still I’d choose to live there,
Forgetting all my friends, and forgotten by them,
Gazing from the shore at distant Neptune’s fury!
Yet a man heading for Rome from Capua, soaked
With mud and rain, wouldn’t choose to live in an inn:
Nor does one who catches a chill praise stove and bath
As the total answer to living a happy life:
Nor will you, tossed by a southerly gale on the deep,
Across the Aegean, sell your ship because of it!
To a healthy man, Rhodes and beautiful Mytilene
Are a heavy cloak in summer, a loincloth worn in
A snowstorm, the wintry Tiber, or an August fire.
While Fate proves benign, and while you can, from Rome,
Praise the far-distant, Samos, and Chios, and Rhodes.
And whatever the hour heaven has blessed you with
Accept it gratefully, don’t put off what’s sweet to some
Other year: then wherever you’ve lived, you can say
You were happy. It’s wisdom, it’s reason, not some place
Overlooking a breadth of water, that drives out care:
Those who rush to sea gain a change of sky not themselves.
Restless idleness occupies us: in yachts and chariots
We seek the good life. But what you’re seeking is here:
If your mind’s not lacking in calm, it’s at Ulubrae!

§ 1.12.1  EPISTLE XII – OF DISCONTENT – TO ICCIUS
Iccius, if you’re using the income you collect
From Agrippa’s Sicilian estates, as you ought,
Jove couldn’t bless you more. Stop complaining:
He’s not poor whose enjoyment of things suffices.
If your lungs, stomach and feet are healthy, royal
Wealth can add nothing. And if you happen to be
Abstemious amongst good things, living on nettles
And vegetables, you’d still live that way, even if
Fate’s stream were suddenly to drench you with gold,
Either because money can’t alter your nature,
Or because you prize one thing, virtue, above all.
We wonder at Democritus’ herds spoiling his meadows
And crops, while his swift mind strayed far from his body:
As you with the contagious itch for wealth around you,
Still betray nothing mean, and aim for the sublime:
What forces constrain the sea, what regulates the year:
Whether planets wander and stray at will, or by law,
What hides the moon’s disc in darkness, what reveals it:
The meaning, the effects, of nature’s harmonious
Discord: is Empedocles crazy or subtle
Stertinius? Whether you’re ‘murdering’ fish or only
Leeks and onions, greet Pompeius Grosphus, give freely
If he asks: he’ll only request what’s right and proper.
When good men are in need, friendship’s cheap at the price.
So you’re in touch with how things are going in Rome,
Cantabria’s fallen to Agrippa’s valour,
Armenia to Tiberius’: Phraates submits
On his knees to Caesar’s imperial rule: golden
Plenty pours her horn, full of fruits, on Italy.

§ 1.13.1  EPISTLE XIII – POEMS FOR AUGUSTUS – TO VINIUS ASINA
As I told you often, at length, on leaving, Vinius,
Deliver these volumes, sealed, to Augustus, if
He’s well, if he’s cheerful, if in short he asks for them:
Lest you offend in your zeal for me, and a busy
Servant, over-eager, causes dislike for my books.
If you find my pages’ heavy burden chafes you,
Leave it, rather than dashing your packsaddle down
Wildly where you were told to deliver it, turning
Your father’s name, of Asina, into a joke,
And a topic of gossip. Flex your strength over, hills
Streams, and bogs. Achieving your purpose, arriving there,
By no chance hold your parcel so as to carry
That bundle of books under your arm, as a rustic
A lamb, drunken Pyrria her stolen ball of wool,
Or a poor tribal-dinner guest his slippers and cap.
And don’t tell everyone you’ve sweated, carrying
Verses, that could engage Caesar’s eyes and ears.
Beseeched by many a prayer, press forward. On now:
Farewell: take care, don’t stumble and damage your load.

§ 1.14.1  EPISTLE XIV – TO THE FARM BAILIFF
Steward, of woods, and the little farm that gives me back
Myself again, farm you loathe though it serves five households,
And sends five honest fathers to Varia’s market,
Let’s see if I’m better at rooting thorns from the mind,
Than you from the soil: whether Horace or farm does best.
Though I’m kept here, by Lamia’s filial affection
And grief: he mourns his brother, sighs inconsolably
For his lost brother, yet thought and feeling draw me back,
Longing to burst the barriers that obstruct the course.
I call the country-dweller, you the townsman, blessed.
One who admires another’s lot, naturally hates his own.
Each man’s foolish to blame a blameless place unfairly:
The mind’s at fault, which can never escape itself.
Drudging away you sighed secretly for the country,
A steward now you long for city games and baths:
You know I’m true to myself, and I’m sad to leave
Whenever some hateful business drags me to Rome.
We like different things: that’s the true disagreement
Between us. What you call empty, inhospitable
Wasteland, is lovely to one who shares my views
And hates what you think fine. I see that it’s brothels
And greasy stalls that stir your desire for town, the fact
Your patch would yield pepper and spice sooner than grapes,
And there’s never an inn nearby to offer you wine,
No pipe-playing whore, to whose wails you can dance,
Pounding the earth: yet you labour in fields, long untouched
By the hoe, tend to the unyoked ox, and feed him cut grass:
Wearied, the stream makes more work, when rain has fallen,
Diverted by earthworks, to spare the sunlit meadow.

§ 1.14.31  Come now, and hear what creates our disharmony.
A man who’s graced with fine clothes and sleek hair,
A man who gift-less still charmed greedy Cinara,
A man who from mid-day on drank clear Falernian,
Now likes a light meal, a sleep in the riverside grass:
The shame’s not in play, but in never letting play end.
There, no one looks askance, detracts from my pleasures,
Or, back-biting, poisons them with a secret hatred:
The neighbours just smile as I shift my turf and stones.
You’d rather gnaw your portion with slaves, in town:
You’d throw in your lot with that crowd: yet my sharp boy
Envies your rights to my firewood, flocks and garden.
The lazy ox longs for the bridle, the horse longs to plough.
I’d advise each to employ, freely, the skill he knows.

§ 1.15.1  EPISTLE XV – OF THE COLD WATER CURE – TO VALA
What’s the winter climate like, Vala, at Velia and Salernum?
What sort of people live there, how are the roads? Since I’m
Prescribed cold baths in winter, Antonius Musa
Makes visiting Baiae pointless, yet ensures I’m
Frowned on there. – Of course the town sighs, its myrtles
Are being abandoned, its sulphur baths scorned that
Rid the sinews of lingering disorders, indignant
At patients who dare to subject head and stomach
To Clusium’s springs, or make for Gabii’s cold fields.
I’ve to change my resort, and spur my horse past
Familiar inns. ‘Whoa, I’m not heading for Cumae
Or Baiae,’ cries the rider, testily giving
The left rein a tug: but the horse only ‘hears’ the bit. –
Which populace feeds on the better supply of grain?
Do they drink from rainwater butts, or perennial
Sweet water wells? – I don’t care for the regional wines:
I can endure anything in my rural retreat,
But by the sea I need something noble and mellow,
That drives away care, and lingers rich with hope
In my veins and heart, to conjure up words and commend
My youthfulness to Lucanian girls –
Which district rears more hares, which more boars,
Which one’s waves hide more sea-urchins and fish,
So I can travel back home, fat as a Phaeacian?
Write to me and say, and I’ll give you full credit.

§ 1.15.26  Maenius, having manfully spent all his mother
And father left him, began as a vagrant urban
Scrounger, a creature with no permanent stable,
When dinnerless not distinguishing friend from foe,
Who’d savagely fabricate lies about anyone,
A tempest, a vortex, the food-markets’ ruin:
Whatever he found he gave to his greedy gut.
When he got little or nothing from those who feared
Or applauded his spite, he’d eat cheap lamb or plates
Of tripe, enough for a trio of bears, proclaiming
Of course that wastrels deserved to be branded
With red hot knives, he being Bestius reformed.
Yet when the same man secured a better prize,
He’d soon reduce it to smoke and ashes, saying:
‘By the gods, I don’t wonder some folks squander their all,
Since nothing beats a fat thrush, or a nice big sow’s womb.’
That’s me of course. Since I praise the safe and humble
When funds are lacking, resolute enough with what’s mean:
But when something better and finer appears, the same
‘I’ declares that only you live wisely and well
Whose established wealth’s revealed in smart villas.

§ 1.16.1  EPISTLE XVI – OF WISDOM – TO QUINCTIUS
To save you asking about my farm, dear Quinctius,
And whether its owner’s supported by the plough,
Or rich from olives, apples, meadows or vine-decked elms,
I’ll describe its nature at length, and the lie of the land.
Unbroken hills, except where they’re cut by a shady
Valley, but with morning sun lighting it on the right,
Its departing chariot, in flight, warming the left side.
You’d praise its mildness. And what if the bushes bore
Rich crops of reddish cornels and plums? If ilex
And oak pleased the herds with piles of acorns, their master
With ample shade? You’d say leafy Tarentum had been
Brought nearer home. A spring fit to name a river too,
And Hebrus no purer or cooler winding through Thrace,
Flows, bringing its aid to infirm heads and stomachs.
This sweet retreat, yes, believe me, it’s lovely,
Keeps me healthy for you in September’s heat.
You live rightly, if you take care to be what I hear.
All we in Rome have long considered you happy:
But I fear lest you believe others more than yourself,
Or lest you think other than wise and good men happy,
Or lest people keep saying you’re quite sound and healthy
While you disguise a hidden fever till dinner time,
When a shivering takes your hands at the groaning table.
Fools through a false sense of shame hide their open sores.

§ 1.16.25  If someone spoke of wars you’d fought on land and sea,
And flattered your listening ear with words like these:
‘May Jupiter, who cares for you and cares for the City,
Leave us in doubt if the people most wish you well,
Or you the people.’ you’d know they praised Augustus.
So when you let yourself be called ‘wise and faultless’,
Tell me, please, do you recognise your name there?
‘Well, I, like you, am charmed to be called good and wise.’
Who gives today can take away tomorrow if he
Pleases, as they take the rods and axe from a failure.
‘Put that down, it’s mine’ he says: I do so, offended,
And retreat. If the same man shouted thief, called me
Shameless, alleged I’d strangled my father with a rope,
Should I be stung by false charges, my face reddened?
Whom do false tributes delight, and scandalous lies
Dismay, but one who’s flawed, infirm? Who’s the good man?
‘Whoever observes the Senate’s decrees, laws, statutes,
Whose judgment resolves many important cases,
Who stands surety, and gives binding testimony.’
Yet all his neighbours and household see this man
As ugly within, though dressed in a handsome skin.

§ 1.16.46  If a slave says to me: ‘I’ve never stolen, or run,’
I reply: ‘Then you’ve your reward, you’ve never been flogged.’
‘I’ve never killed anyone’: ‘You’ll not hang on a cross
And feed crows.’ ‘I’m good and honest’: A Sabine would shake
His head in dissent. A wary wolf fears the trap,
A hawk the hidden net, a pike the baited hook,
And the good hate vice, through love of virtue.
But you commit no crimes for fear of punishment:
If there’s hope of concealment, you’ll blur sacred
And profane. If you steal one of my thousand bushels
Of beans, my loss is less, for that reason, not your sin.
This ‘good’ man, admired in forum or tribunal,
When he offers a pig or ox to placate the gods,
Cries loud and clear: ‘Father Janus!’ and ‘Apollo!’
Then just moving his lips, afraid to be heard: ‘Lovely
Laverna, let me escape, let me seem just and pious,
Veil my sins in darkness, my falsehoods in clouds.’
How a miser who stoops at the crossroads to pick up
A planted coin can be better or freer than a slave,
I don’t see: those who are covetous, fear as well:
And, to me, he who lives in fear will never be free.
The man who always rushes around lost in making
Money has deserted Virtue’s ranks, and grounded arms.
Once captured don’t kill him, if you can sell him:
He’ll do as a slave: with flocks or plough if he’s tough,
Or let him sail as a trader, wintering in the deep,
Or help in the market, carrying food and stores.
The good and wise man will dare to say: ‘Pentheus,
Lord of Thebes, what shame can you force me to suffer
And endure?’ ‘I’ll take your goods.’ My cattle you mean,
Possessions, couches, silver: do so.’ ‘I’ll chain you, hand
And foot, and imprison you under a cruel jailor.’
‘Yet, whenever I wish, the gods will set me free.’
I take it he means, ‘I’ll die’. Death is the final goal.

§ 1.17.1  EPISTLE XVII – OF INDEPENDENCE – TO SCAEVA
Though you attend well enough to your own interests,
Scaeva, and know too how to behave with the great,
Hear the views of a dear friend, who’s still learning:
As if a blind man wished to show you the way: but see
If I’ve anything to say that you might care to own to.
If you love dearest peace, and to sleep till daybreak,
If dust, the sound of wheels, and tavern-life offend you,
I’ll order you off to silent Ferentinum:
Enjoyment’s not for the rich alone: he’s not lived
Badly, who’s escaped attention from birth to death.
But if you want to help your friends and help yourself
A little more, the hungry man head’s for the feast.
‘If Aristippus was happy to eat vegetables,
He wouldn’t woo princes.’ ‘If he knew how to woo
Princes, my critic would scorn vegetables.’ Which
Words and example do you approve? Tell me, or since
You’re younger, here’s why Aristippus is wiser.
This is the way, they say, he parried the fierce Cynic:
‘You play the fool for the people, I for myself:
It’s nobler and truer. I serve so a horse bears me,
A prince feeds me: you beg for scraps, but are still less
Than the giver, though you boast of needing no man.’
All styles, states, circumstances suited Aristippus
Aiming higher, but mostly content with what he had.
But I’d be amazed if a change in his way of life,
Would suit one austerity clothes in a Cynic’s rags.
The first won’t wait for a purple robe, he’ll walk
Through the crowded streets wearing anything he has,
And play either role without any awkwardness:
The second will shun a fine cloak made in Miletus,
As he would a dog or snake, and die of cold if you
Don’t return his rags. Do so, and let him be a fool.

§ 1.17.33  To achieve things, to display captive enemies
To the crowd, is to touch Jove’s throne, and mount the sky:
Yet it’s no slight glory to have pleased the leading men.
It doesn’t happen that every man gets to Corinth.
He who feared he mightn’t reach it, stayed at home. ‘Fine,
But the one who arrived, did he play the man?’ Yes,
Here if anywhere is what we’re seeking. He dreads
The load as too great for his frail mind and body:
He lifts it, carries it on. If virtue’s no empty
Word, the enterprising man seeks worth and honour.
Those who keep quiet about their own needs in front of
Their patron, win more than those who beg: that’s the aim.
It does matter whether you receive, humbly, or snatch.
‘My sister’s no dower, my mother’s a pauper,
My farm can’t feed us, and can’t find a buyer,’
He who speaks, is shouting: ‘Give us food!’ ‘Me too!’ cries
His neighbour: the gift is split, the morsel’s divided.
But if the crow fed quietly, he’d gain more food,
With a great deal less quarrelling and resentment.
When a companion travelling to Brundisium
Or sweet Surrentum moans about the ruts, the bitter
Cold, the rain, his trunk broken open, his money gone,
It’s like a girl’s cute tricks, always weeping to herself
About a stolen chain, or an anklet, so later
Her genuine losses and grief won’t be believed.
He who’s been fooled before won’t bother to help
That joker, with a broken leg, at the crossroads,
Who in floods of tears swears by sacred Osiris:
‘It’s no jest, believe me: don’t be cruel, help the lame!’
‘Go ask a stranger,’ the raucous neighbours shout.

§ 1.18.1  EPISTLE XVIII – ADVICE ON PATRONS – TO LOLLIUS
Lollius, frankest of men, if I know you truly,
Professing yourself a friend, you’d hate to appear
A hanger-on. As a wife and whore are unequal,
Unlike, so a friend differs from a fickle sponger.
There’s an opposite, maybe a greater vice than this,
Boorish aggression, offensive and awkward, replete
With shaven head, and blackened teeth, that seeks
To pass itself off as plain speech and honest virtue.
Virtue’s the mean between vices, far from extremes.
The first type, a joker, prone to be over-servile,
Next to the host on the lowest couch, anxious
For the rich man’s nod, echoing his words, hanging
On every one, you’d think him a schoolboy repeating
Lines for his stern teacher, a mime playing second part.
The other disputes about whether goat’s hair’s wool,
Arms himself over trifles: ‘Conceive of not being
Thought right at once, barking out fiercely what I truly
Think! A second life, even, wouldn’t be worth that price!’
The issue? Is Castor or Dolichos more skilful?
For Brundisium, take the Appian or Minucian?
The man stripped bare by ruinous passion or reckless
Gambling, whom Vanity clothes and scents beyond his means,
Gripped by endless hunger and thirst for money, by shame
And fear of poverty, will be dreaded and loathed by his
Rich friend, whose often ten times more deeply versed in sin.
Or if not hating him, guides him, like a dutiful mother,
Who’d have him more virtuous, wiser than himself,
And almost speaks truth: ‘My wealth (don’t try to compete!)
Allows for foolishness: while your means are only slight.
A narrow toga suits a sensible follower:
Don’t vie with me.’ If he wished to harm someone,
Eutrapelus gave him rich clothes: ‘Now, the happy man
Will assume new plans and hopes with his fine tunics,
Sleep till sun-up, and postpone his honest affairs
For the sake of a whore, swell his debts, and end as
A gladiator, or driving a grocer’s nag for hire.’

§ 1.18.37  You should never pry into your patron’s secrets,
But, trusted, defend them though racked by wine or anger.
Don’t praise your own tastes or criticise those of others,
And don’t pen poetry if he wants to go hunting.
That’s how Amphion and Zethus’ brotherly feelings
Dissolved, till the lyre the sterner one so distrusted
Fell silent. Amphion, it’s said, gave way to his brother’s
Humour: yield yourself to the gentle commands of
A powerful friend. When he heads for the country,
With his hounds, his mules weighed down with Aetolian
Hunting nets, away with your peevish unsociable
Muse: up, earn with effort the relish for your dinner:
It’s the Roman hero’s common sport, good for glory,
Life and limb: especially since you’re fit, and can run
Faster than hounds, or the powerful boar: what’s more
There’s no one who handles the weapons men use
More gracefully: you know how the onlookers cheer
When you compete on the Campus: lastly, you fought
As a boy in a tough campaign, and the Spanish wars,
Under a leader who’s now reclaiming our standards
From Parthian temples, and adding to Italy’s might.
And lest you hang back, absent yourself for no reason,
Well, you do have fun sometimes at your father’s place,
However carefully you shun excess or tastelessness:
The boats are split into fleets, the battle of Actium,
You as admiral, is fought with your lads as the foes:
Your brother opposes, the Adriatic’s the lake,
Till winged Victory crowns one or the other with bay.
If your patron believes you endorse his pursuits,
He’ll give you the thumbs up and praise your display.
BkIEpXVIII:67- 85 Plenty more advice
On with the advice (if you need any advice):
Always think what you say to whom, and of whom.
Avoid the inquisitive: they’re also garrulous,
Flapping ears can’t be trusted to keep a secret,
And once the word’s let slip, it flies beyond recall.
Don’t let a girl or boy arouse your passion, once you
Have crossed your revered friend’s marble doorstep,
Lest the lovely boy’s or pretty girl’s master blesses
You with so slight a gift, or annoyed by it refuses.
Reflect again and again on whom you sponsor,
Lest later the other’s failings fill you with shame.
Sometimes we fail and propose the unworthy: so
If deceived, avoid defending the one who’s at fault,
Then when a man you know deeply is charged with crime
You can help and protect him who relies on your aid:
When someone’s bitten by Theon’s slanderous teeth,
How long will it be before you share the danger?
If your neighbour’s roof’s in flames, it’s your business too,
And neglected fires have a habit of gaining strength.

§ 1.18.86  To the inexperienced, courting a powerful friend
Seems pleasant: the experienced dread it. While your ship’s
On the deep, take care, lest a shift of wind sets you back.
The sad hate the merry, the cheerful hate the sad,
The lively the sedate, the slack the keen and busy:
Drinkers hate the man who refuses a glass, despite
Your swearing you’re afraid of night-time fevers.
Dispel the cloud from your brow: diffidence often
Seems like secretiveness, taciturnity moroseness.
Amongst all this, read and question the learned,
As to how to find the way to spend the tranquil day:
Whether greed, bound to craving, shall vex and plague you,
Or fear, and the hope of things of dubious benefit:
Whether wisdom breeds virtue, or Nature grants it:
What lessens care, what reconciles you to yourself,
What simply calms you, honours and cherished profit,
Or the sequestered journey, the path of noiseless life.
Whenever Digentia’s icy stream restores me,
Where that village wrinkled with cold, Mandela, drinks,
What do you think I feel? What are my prayers, my friend?
That I might have what I have, or less: live for myself
What’s left of life, if the gods choose to leave it me:
With a good supply of books, and each year’s provisions,
Not wavering in doubt with the hopes of fickle hours.
Well, it’s enough to ask Jove, who gives and takes away,
To grant life and wealth: I’ll provide a calm mind myself.

§ 1.19.1  EPISTLE XIX – OF HIS WORKS – TO MAECENAS
If you believe old Cratinus, learned Maecenas,
No poetry could ever live long or delight us
That water-drinkers pen. Since Bacchus enlisted
Poets, the barely sane, among his Fauns and Satyrs,
The sweet Muses usually have a dawn scent of wine.
Homer’s praise of it shows he was fond of the grape:
Ennius never leapt to his tales of arms, unless
He was drunk. ‘I’ll trust the Forum and Libo’s Well
To the sober, I’ll prevent the austere from singing’:
Since I made that edict, poets have never left off
Wine-drinking contests at night, reeking by day.
What? If a man imitated Cato’s fierce, grim look,
His bare feet, and the cut of his curtailed toga,
Would he then show us Cato’s virtues and character?
Emulating Timagenes’ speeches ruined Iarbitas,
Through straining so hard to be witty and eloquent.
Examples with reproducible faults mislead us:
If I were sallow, they’d swallow cumin to turn pale.
O Imitators, slavish herd, how often your noise
Has stirred my anger, how often stirred my laughter!

§ 1.19.21  I first planted my footsteps freely on virgin soil,
Touched by my feet, no others. He who trusts himself
Rules, as leader of the crowd. I was the first to show
Latium the Parian iambic, following
Archilochus in spirit and metre, though not
The theme or words that accused Lycambes. And lest you
Crown me with a lesser wreath, for fearing to change
Metre or style, it’s the beat of Sappho’s mannish Muse,
And of Alcaeus’, though his theme and order differ,
Not trying to smear his father-in-law with dark verse
Nor weaving a noose for his bride with slanderous rhyme.
Never sung before by other lips, I the lyrist
Of Latium made him known. I’m pleased to convey
New things, be read by gentle eyes, held by gentle hands.
Want to know why ungrateful readers love and praise
My works at home, then savage them unfairly abroad?
Because I don’t chase the votes of a fickle public
With costly dinners and gifts of second-hand clothes:
Because, student of noble writers, and avenger,
I don’t deign to court the tribe of stagy lecturers.
Hence the tears. If I say: ‘I’m ashamed to recite
Worthless writings in a crowded hall, and add weight
To trifles’ they say: ‘You’re teasing, you’re keeping them
For Jove’s ear: you alone distil poetic honey,
Sure enough, full of yourself.’ Fearing to show contempt
For that, and of being torn by a sharp nail in a fight,
I cry: ‘I don’t like the location,’ and call a truce.
That game indeed gives rise to restless strife and anger:
Anger to savage enmities, wars unto the death.

§ 1.20.1  EPISTLE XX – EPILOGUE – TO HIS BOOK
No doubt, liber, you’re eyeing Vertumnus and Janus,
Eager for sale, polished with the Sosii’s pumice.
You dislike those locks and seals dear to the modest:
You grieve at private viewings, praise public life,
Though I didn’t rear you so. Off, where you itch to go!
Once out, there’s no recall. ‘Ah, what have I done?
What did I hope?’ you’ll say, when someone hurts you,
When you’re rolled up small, your sated lover weary.
But unless the augur, hating your errors, is fooling,
You’ll be dear to Rome till your youth deserts you:
Then when you’ve been well-thumbed by vulgar hands,
And start to grow soiled, silent you’ll be food for worms,
Or flee to Utica, or be sent, bound, to Ilerda.
He who warns you, unheeded, will laugh, like the man
Who pushed his stubborn donkey, in anger, over the cliff:
For who would bother to help a creature against its will?
And this fate awaits you: mumbling old age will overtake
You, teaching little boys to read on the street-corner.
When a warmer sun attracts a few more listeners,
You’ll tell them I was a freedman’s son, that, of slender
Means, I spread wings that were too large for my nest,
And though my birth lessens them, you’ll add to my merits:
Say, in war and peace, I found favour with our leaders,
Was slight of frame, grey too early, fond of the sun,
Quick-tempered, yet one who was easy to placate.
If anyone happens to ask about my age,
Tell him I completed my forty-fourth December,
When Lollius, as consul, was joined by Lepidus.

§ 2.1.1  EPISTLE I – ON LITERATURE – TO AUGUSTUS
Caesar, I would sin against the public good if I
Wasted your time with tedious chatter, since you
Bear the weight of such great affairs, guarding Italy
With armies, raising its morals, reforming its laws.
Romulus, Father Liber, and Pollux and Castor,
Were welcomed to the gods’ temples after great deeds,
But while they still cared for earth, and human kind
Resolved fierce wars, allocated land, founded cities,
They bemoaned the fact that the support they received
Failed to reflect their hopes or merit. Hercules crushed
The deadly Hydra, was fated to toil at killing fabled
Monsters, but found Envy only tamed by death at last.
He will dazzle with his brilliance, who eclipses talents
Lesser than his own: yet be loved when it’s extinguished.
We though will load you while here with timely honours,
Set up altars, to swear our oaths at, in your name,
Acknowledging none such has risen or will arise.
Yet this nation of yours, so wise and right in this,
In preferring you above Greek, or our own, leaders,
Judges everything else by wholly different rules
And means, despising and hating whatever it has
Not itself seen vanish from earth, and fulfil its time:
It so venerates ancient things that the Twelve Tables
Forbidding sin the Decemvirs ratified, mutual
Treaties our kings made with Gabii, or tough Sabines,
The Pontiffs’ books, the musty scrolls of the seers,
It insists the Muses proclaimed on the Alban Mount!
If, because each of the oldest works of the Greeks
Is still the best, we must weigh our Roman writers
On the same scales, that doesn’t require many words:
Then there’d be no stone in an olive, shell on a nut:
We’ve achieved fortune’s crown, we paint, make music,
We wrestle, more skilfully than the oily Achaeans.

§ 2.1.34  If poems like wine improve with age, I’d like to know
How many years it takes to give a work its value.
Is a writer who died a century ago
To be considered among the perfect classics,
Or as one of the base moderns? Let’s set some limit
To avoid dispute: ‘Over a hundred’s good and old.’
Well what about him, he died a year, a month short,
How do we reckon him? As an ancient, or a poet
Whom contemporaries and posterity will reject?
‘Of course, if he falls short by a brief month, or even
A whole year, he should be honoured among the ancients.’
I’ll accept that, and then like hairs in a horse’s tail
I’ll subtract years, one by one, little by little, till
By the logic of the dwindling pile, I demolish
The man who turns to the calendar, and measures
Value by age, only rates what Libitina’s blessed.
Ennius, the ‘wise’ and ‘brave’, a second Homer,
The critics declare, is free of anxiety it seems
Concerning his Pythagorean dreams and claims.
Naevius, isn’t he clinging to our hands and minds,
Almost a modern? Every old poem is sacred, thus.
Whenever the question’s raised who is superior,
Old Pacuvius is ‘learned, Accius ‘noble’,
Afranius’ toga’s the style of Menander’s,
Plautus runs on like Sicilian Epicharmus,
His model, Caecilius for dignity, Terence art.
These mighty Rome memorises, watches them packed
In her cramped theatre: these she owns to, counts them
As poets, from the scribbler Livius’ day to our own.

§ 2.1.63  Sometimes the crowd see aright, sometimes they err.
When they admire the ancient poets and praise them
So none are greater, none can compare, they’re wrong.
When they consider their diction too quaint, and often
Harsh, when they confess that much of it’s lifeless,
They’ve taste, they’re on my side, and judge like Jove.
Of course I’m not attacking Livius’ verses,
Nor dream they should be destroyed, ones I remember
Orbilius, the tartar, teaching me when I was a lad:
But I’m amazed they’re thought finished, fine, almost perfect.
Though maybe a lovely phrases glitters now and then,
Or a couple of lines are a little more polished,
That unjustly carry, and sell, the whole poem.
I’m indignant that work is censured, not because
It’s thought crudely or badly made, but because it’s new,
While what’s old claims honours and prizes not indulgence.
If I doubted whether a play of Atta’s could even make it
Through the flowers and saffron, most old men would cry
That Shame was dead, because I’d dared to criticise
What grave Aesopus, and learned Roscius, acted:
Either they think nothing’s good but what pleases them,
Or consider it’s shameful to bow to their juniors,
Confess: what beardless youth has learned, age should destroy.
Indeed, whoever praises Numa’s Salian Hymn,
And seems, uniquely, to follow what he and I can’t,
Isn’t honouring and applauding some dead genius,
But impugning ours, with envy, hating us and ours.

§ 2.1.90  If novelty had been as hateful to the Greeks
As to us, what would we have, now, to call ancient?
What would the crowd have to sample, read and thumb?
As soon as Greece ceased fighting, she started fooling,
And when better times had come, lapsed into error,
One moment hot with enthusiasm for athletes,
Then horses, mad for workers in ivory, marble, bronze:
Mind and vision enraptured by painted panels,
Crazy now for flute-players, now for tragic actors:
Like a girl-child playing at her nurse’s feet,
Quickly leaving when sated what she’s loudly craved.
Such things blessed peace and fair breezes brought.
For a long time, in Rome, it was a pleasant custom
To be up at dawn, doors wide, to teach clients the law,
To pay out good money to reliable debtors,
To hear the elders out, tell the youngsters the way
To grow an estate, and reduce their ruinous waste.
But what likes and dislikes would you call immutable?
The fickle public has changed its mind, fired as one
With a taste for scribbling: sons and their stern fathers,
Hair bound up with leaves, dine, and declaim their verse.
Even I, who swear that I’m writing no more poetry,
Lie more than a Parthian, wake before sun-up,
And call for paper and pen and my writing-case.
One without nautical skills fears to sail: no one
Unskilled dares give Lad’s Love to the sick: doctors
Practise medicine: carpenters handle carpentry tools:
But, skilled or unskilled, we all go scribbling verses.

§ 2.1.118  Yet this error, this mild insanity, has certain
Merits, consider this: the mind of a poet
Is seldom avaricious: he loves verse, that’s his bent:
At fires, disasters, runaway slaves: he smiles:
He never plots to defraud his business partner,
Or some young ward: he lives on pulse vegetables,
And coarse bread: a poor and reluctant soldier he still
Serves the State, if you grant small things may serve great ends.
The poet moulds the lisping, tender lips of childhood,
Turning the ear even then from coarse expression,
Quickly shaping thought with his kindly precepts,
Tempering envy, and cruelty, and anger.
He tells of good deeds, instructs the rising age
Through famous precedents, comforts the poor and ill.
How would innocent boys, unmarried girls, have learnt
Their hymns, if the Muse hadn’t granted them a bard?
Their choir asks for help, and feels the divine presence,
Calls for rain from heaven, taught by his winning prayer,
Averts disease, dispels the threatened danger,
Gains the gift of peace, and a year of rich harvests.
By poetry gods above are soothed, spirits below.
The farmers of old, those tough men blessed with little,
After harvesting their crops, with their faithful wives
And slaves, their fellow-workers, comforted body
And mind, that bears all hardship for a hoped-for end,
By propitiating Earth with a pig, Silvanus
With milk, the Genius who knows life brevity
With flowers and wine. So Fescennine licence appeared,
Whereby rustic abuse poured out in verse-exchanges,
Freedom of speech had its place in the yearly cycle,
In fond play, till its jests becoming fiercer, turned
To open rage, and, fearless in their threats, ran through
Decent houses. Those bitten by its teeth were pained:
Even those who never felt its touch were drawn to
Make common cause: and at last a law was passed,
Declaring the punishment for portraying any man
In malicious verse: all changed their tune, and were led,
By fear of the cudgel, back to sweet and gracious speech.

§ 2.1.156  Captive Greece captured, in turn, her uncivilised
Conquerors, and brought the arts to rustic Latium.
So coarse Saturnian metres faded, and good taste
Banished venom: though traces of our rural
Past remained for many a year, and still remain.
Not till later did Roman thought turn to Greek models,
And in the calm after the Punic Wars began to ask
What Sophocles, Thespis, Aeschylus might offer.
Romans experimented, seeing if they could rework
Such things effectively, noble and quick by nature,
They pleased: happily bold, with tragic spirit enough,
Yet novices, thinking it shameful, fearing, to revise.
Some think that Comedy, making use of daily life,
Needs little sweat, but in fact it’s more onerous,
Less forgiving. Look at how badly Plautus handles
A youthful lover’s part, or a tight-fisted father,
Or treacherous pimp, what a Dossenus he makes,
Sly villain, amongst his gluttonous parasites,
How slipshod he is in sliding about the stage.
Oh, he’s keen to fill his pockets, and after that
Cares little if it fails, or stands on its own two feet.
A cold audience deflates, a warm one inspires
Those whom Fame’s airy chariot bears to the light:
So slight, so small a thing it is, shatters and restores
Minds that crave praise. Farewell to the comic theatre,
If winning the palm makes me rich, its denial poor.

§ 2.1.182  Often even the brave poet is frightened and routed,
When those less in worth and rank, but greater in number,
Stupid illiterates always ready for a fight
If the knights challenge them, shout for bears or boxing
Right in the midst of the play: it’s that the rabble love.
Nowadays even the knight’s interest has wholly passed
From the ear to the empty delights of the roaming eye.
The curtain’s drawn back (lowered) for four hours or more,
While squads of infantry, troops of horse, sweep by:
Beaten kings are dragged past, hands bound behind them,
Chariots, carriages, wagons and ships hurry along,
Burdens of captured ivory, Corinthian bronze.
If Democritus were still here on earth, he’d smile,
Watching the crowd, more than the play itself,
As presenting a spectacle more worth seeing,
Than some hybrid creature, the camelopard,
Or a white elephant, catching their attention.
As for the authors he’d think they were telling their tales
To a deaf donkey. What voices could ever prevail
And drown the din with which our theatres echo?
You’d think the Garganian woods or Tuscan Sea roared:
Amongst such noise the entertainment’s viewed, the works
Of art, the foreign jewels with which the actor
Drips, as he takes the stage to tumultuous applause.
‘Has he spoken yet?’ ‘Not a thing.’ ‘Then, why the fuss?’
‘ Oh, it’s his wool robe dyed violet in Tarentum.’
But lest you happen to think I give scant praise to those
Who handle with skill what I refuse to consider,
Well that poet seems to me a magi, who can walk
The tightrope, who can wring my heart with nothings,
Inflame it, calm it, fill it with illusory fears,
Set me down in Thebes one moment, Athens another.

§ 2.1.214  But come, give a moment’s care to those who trust themselves
To the reader, rather than suffer the spectator’s
Proud disdain, that is if you wish to fill with books
Your gift worthy of Apollo, and spur our poets
To seek Helicon’s verdant slopes with greater zeal.
Of course we poets frequently harm our own cause
(Just as I’m axing my own vine) sending our books
To you when you’re tired or anxious: when we’re hurt
That a friend of ours has dared to criticise a verse:
When we turn back to lines we’ve already read, unasked:
When we moan that all our efforts go unnoticed,
And our poetry, spun with such exquisite threads:
While we live in hope that as soon as you hear that we
Are composing verses, you’ll kindly send for us,
Relieve our poverty, and command us to write.
Still it’s worth while considering what kind of priests
Virtue, tested at home and in war, should appoint,
Since unworthy poets shouldn’t be given the task.
Choerilus, who had his crude misbegotten verses
To thank for the golden Philips, the royal coins,
He received, more than pleased Alexander the Great:
But often writers dim shining deeds with vile scrawls,
As ink on the fingers will leaves its blots and stains.
That same king, who paid so enormous a price for such
Ridiculous poetry, issued an edict
Forbidding anyone but Apelles to paint him,
Anyone other than Lysippus to cast in bronze
Brave Alexander’s artistic likeness. Yet if you
Applied that judgement, so refined when viewing works
Of art, to books and to those same gifts of the Muses,
You’d swear he’d been born to Boeotia’s dull air.

§ 2.1.245  But your judgement’s not discredited by your beloved
Virgil and Varius, nor by the gifts your poets
Receive, that redound to your credit, while features
Are expressed no more vividly by a bronze statue,
Than the spirit and character of famous heroes
By the poet’s work. Rather than my earthbound pieces
I’d prefer to compose tales of great deeds,
Describe the contours of land and river, forts built
On mountains, and barbarous kingdoms, of the end
Of all war, throughout the world, by your command,
Of the iron bars that enclose Janus, guardian of peace,
Of Rome, the terror of the Parthians, ruled by you,
If I could do as much as I long to: but your greatness
Admits of no lowly song, nor does my modesty
Dare to attempt a task my powers cannot sustain.
It’s a foolish zealousness that vexes those it loves,
Above all when it commits itself to the art of verse:
Men remember more quickly, with greater readiness,
Things they deride, than those they approve and respect.
I don’t want oppressive attention, nor to be shown
Somewhere as a face moulded, more badly, in wax,
Nor to be praised in ill-made verses, lest I’m forced
To blush at the gift’s crudity, and then, deceased,
In a closed box, be carried down, next to ‘my’ poet,
To the street where they sell incense, perfumes, pepper,
And whatever else is wrapped in redundant paper.

§ 2.2.1  EPISTLE II – OF THE POET’S LIFE – TO FLORUS
Florus, faithful friend of the great and good Tiberius,
What if by chance someone wanted to sell you a slave,
From Tibur or Gabii, and went to work on you
Like this: ‘Here’s a handsome lad, lovely from head to toe,
Eight thousand sesterces and it’s done, he’s yours,
Born in-house, quick to obey his master’s orders,
Trained in Greek letters, adaptable to any task,
Wet clay that can be moulded however you wish:
He’ll even sing as you drink, artlessly but sweetly.
Extravagant claims knock confidence, if a dealer
Who’s eager to push his wares overdoes them.
Nothing’s pricking me though: I’m poor but in funds.
You’ll not get an offer like this: no one will easily
See the like from me. He’s only skipped once, as they do,
And hid under the stairs fearing the strap on the wall.
Give me the cash, if that lapse of his don’t bother you’:
Let’s suppose he secured full price: you’ll have bought
Knowing the goods at fault: the condition as stated:
Will you sue him then, and accuse him on false grounds?
I said I was lazy when you were leaving, I said
I’m quite useless at such things, to stop you scolding
If never a letter of mine reached you in reply.
What was the point, if you still attack me, when I’m
In the right? And on top of that you even complain
That I lied, failing to send you the poems I promised!

§ 2.2.26  One of Lucullus’ soldiers, with effort, had gathered
Some savings, but lost every penny one night, as he
Snored away, exhausted. Like a fierce wolf, enraged
By self and foe alike, angrily baring his teeth,
He single-handedly drove a royal garrison
From a strongly defended, richly stocked site, it’s said.
Now famous, he garnered rewards and honours, winning
Twenty thousand sesterces in cash as well.
By chance, soon after, the general wanting to storm
A fort, began by urging on this same man, with words
Guaranteed to have inspired a coward with courage:
‘Go, my fine lad, where virtue calls, and good luck,
Go where you’ll win great rewards for your work!
What stops you?’ Peasant though he was, the crafty man
Replied: ‘He who’s lost his cash, he’ll go where you wish.’
I happened to be raised in Rome, and to be taught
How much the anger of Achilles harmed the Greeks.
A little more learning was added by kindly Athens,
And so I was keen to distinguish crooked from straight,
And to search for truth in the groves of Academe.
But turbulent times snatched me from that sweet spot,
The tide of civil war swept me a novice into that army
That proved no match for Augustus Caesar’s strong grip.
As soon as Philippi brought about my discharge,
Wings clipped, humbled, stripped of my father’s estate
And farm, the courage of poverty drove me to making
Verse: but now I lack nothing, what amount of hemlock
Could ever be sufficient to purify my mind,
If I didn’t think dozing were better than scribbling verse?

§ 2.2.56  The passing years steal one thing after another:
They’ve robbed me of fun, love, banquets, sport:
They’re trying to wrest my poems away: what next?
Everyone can’t love and like the same things, after all:
You enjoy lyric art, he delights in iambics,
Another Bion’s pieces with their biting wit.
It seems to me it’s quite like three guests who disagree,
Seeking wide variety for their varying tastes.
What to serve or not? You object to what he orders:
Your choice is sour and hateful to the other two.
Anyway, do you think I can write poems in Rome,
Among so many anxieties, so many duties?
One man begs me as sponsor, another to forget
Business and hear his works: he’s ill on the Quirinal,
He’s on the distant Aventine, I’ve to visit both:
You see how sweetly kind the distance. ‘True,
But the roads are quiet, nothing to stop you thinking.’
A fiery builder rushes past with mules and workmen,
A huge crane hoists a beam, and then a boulder,
Weeping funerals jostle with lumbering wagons,
A mad dog hares this way, a mud-spattered pig that:
Now go and meditate on some tuneful verse!
The whole choir of poets loves woods, and hates the city,
True followers of Bacchus, loving sleep and shade:
Do you want me to sing, and follow the poet’s
Secluded path, amongst this racket, night and day?
A genius, who’s chosen peaceful Athens for himself,
Devoted seven years to his studies, and grown old
With books and care, walks round often as not dumber
Than a statue, and makes people shake with laughter:
Am I, here, in the storms and breakers of the city,
Capable of weaving words to stir the music of the lyre?

§ 2.2.87  Two friends at Rome, a lawyer and an orator,
Only ever heard mutual compliments spoken:
He a Gracchus to him, and he to him Mucius.
Does some lesser madness vex our tuneful poets?
I compose lyrics, he elegiacs. Wondrous to see,
Work engraved by the Nine Muses! First take note
With what pride, what self-importance, we gaze
Round the temple, left vacant for Roman poets!
And next, if you’ve time, follow, and hear from afar
What each brings, with what he weaves himself a crown.
We’re beaten about, trading blows we weary our foe,
Like ponderous Samnites duelling till lamps are lit.
I end up Alcaeus according to him: and he to me?
Who else but Callimachus? If he seems to want more
He’s Mimnermus, and swells at the name I’ve chosen.
I endured much to soothe the sensitive tribe of poets,
When I scribbled, bidding humbly for popular fame:
Now I’ve finished my task and recovered my wits
I can cheerfully stop my hollow ears when they recite.
Whoever writes bad verses is laughed at: and yet
They enjoy writing and treat themselves with respect,
More, if you’re silent, they happily praise what they’ve done.
But whoever wants to write a genuine poem,
Will adopt, with his pen, the role of a true critic:
Whichever of his words are lacking in clarity,
Insufficiently weighty, unworthy of respect,
He’ll dare to erase them, though they’ll go unwillingly,
And they’ll still float about in Vesta’s sanctuary:
So a good poet can unearth and bring to the light
For us, beautiful names, long hidden, for things,
Though once spoken by Cato, or by Cethegus,
And now buried by hideous neglect and dull age:
He’ll admit some new ones, that usage has fathered.
Powerful and clear, indeed like a crystal river,
He’ll pour out riches, and bless Latium with a wealth
Of language: he’ll prune excess, smooth the coarse
With healthy refinement, striking out what lacks worth,
Make it seem like play, and yet be tormented, now
Made to dance like a Satyr, now a plodding Cyclops.

§ 2.2.126  I’d sooner be seen as a crazy and lazy writer,
While my faults please me, or at least escape me,
Than see sense, but snarl. There was a man in Argos,
No pleb, who thought he was watching fine tragic acting,
Alone in the empty theatre, applauding happily:
Who otherwise handled life’s duties perfectly
Well, a very good neighbour, a charming host,
Kind to his wife, one who forgave his slaves’ faults,
Didn’t go mad if the seal on a bottle was broken,
Was able to keep from a cliff or an open well.
When he was cured, with his relatives help and care
Expelling sickness and madness with pure hellebore,
And had come to his senses he cried: ‘Ah, you’ve killed me,
Friends, not saved me, since you’ve stolen my pleasure,
And by force removed my mind’s dearest illusion.’
Of course it’s wise to see sense, and throw away toys,
And leave those games to lads that are suited to that age,
And not search out melodious words for the Latin lyre,
But learn by heart the true life’s rhythm and metre.
So, I say this to myself, and in silence repeat it:
If no amount of clear water could quench your thirst,
You’d see a doctor: well, the more you get the more
You want, is there no one you dare confess that to?
If you’d a wound that wasn’t soothed by the herbs and roots
You were given, you’d stop being treated with herbs
And roots that did no good: perhaps you’ve heard perverse
Foolishness leaves the man to whom the gods give riches:
If you’re no wiser then since you became wealthier,
Why do you still employ the same counsellors?

§ 2.2.155  And if possessions did have the power to make you wise,
Made you crave less, and fear less, you’d still be ashamed,
Yes, if even one man on earth was greedier than you!
If what’s bought with scales and copper coin is yours,
Ownership comes by use too, if you believe lawyers:
Any land that feeds you is yours: Orbius’ steward
When he harrows the field that will soon give you grain,
Treats you like an owner. You give the money for grapes,
Poultry, eggs, a jar of wine: aren’t you buying that farm
Bit by bit, once purchased outright for three hundred
Thousand sesterces or it might be for even more?
What matter whether you paid for it just now or then?
The past buyer of land at Aricia or Veii
Has still bought the greens he’s eating whatever he thinks,
He’s bought the logs heating his kettle on a chill night:
Yet he calls it his, right up to where poplars planted
Fix the boundaries and stall neighbours’ quarrels: as if
Anything were ours, that in a moment of fleeting time,
Changes owners, by gift on request, by force or fee,
At last by death, passing into another’s hands.
Since then no one’s granted perpetual use, and heir
Follows heir just as one wave will follow another,
What use are barns, or estates? What use our adding
Lucanian pastures to those of Calabria,
If Orcus, unmoved by gold, reaps high and low?

§ 2.2.180  Jewels, ivory, marble, Etruscan figurines,
Pictures, silver plate, robes dyed Gaetulian purple:
Many there are who own, one who cares to own, none.
Why one man prefers playing, idling, oiling himself,
To Herod’s fine palm groves, while his rich brother
Works without cease, from dawn to evening shadow,
To tame his woodland tract with fire and metal,
The Genius only knows, companion controlling
Our natal stars, god of our human nature, mortal
With each life though, fickle in aspect, bright or dark.
Whatever I need, I’ll take and use from my modest
Store, without fear of how my heir might judge me,
Getting no more than he’s already had: yet also
I’ll seek to find the line between frank and carefree
Generosity, and waste, between thrift and meanness.
It does matter whether you scatter lavishly, or
While not unwilling to spend, not working for more,
You’d rather snatch enjoyment of brief sweet hours
As a schoolboy will on Minerva’s Holidays.
Let my house be far from squalid poverty: and borne
By vessel large or small, I’m borne still one and the same.
Not driven by swelling sails, in following Northerlies:
Nor yet spending my life among hostile Southerlies,
In strength, wit, appearance, courage, rank, and riches,
Still behind the first, but always in front of the last.
You’re no miser: go on. Well? Has every other vice
Fled with that one? Is you heart free of worthless
Ambition? Free from horror, indignation at death?
Do you laugh at dreams, miracles, magical terrors,
Witches, ghosts in the night, and Thessalian portents?
Do you mark birthdays with thanks? Forgive your friends?
Are you mellower, and more decent, as old age nears?
What good does it do to extract just a single thorn?
If you don’t know how to live as you ought, give way
To those who do. You’ve fed, and wined, and played enough:
It’s time for you to leave: lest you drink too freely,
And lovelier impudent youth hits you, and mocks you.