The Satires, Epistles, and Art of Poetry of Horace Part 7

"There was an aged freedman, who would run From shrine to shrine at rising of the sun, Sober and purified for prayer, and cry 'Save me, me only! sure I need not die; Heaven can do all things:' ay, the man was sane In ears and eyes: but how about his brain?

Why, that his master, if not bent to plead Before a court, could scarce have guaranteed.

Him and all such Chrysippus would a.s.sign To mad Menenius' most prolific line.

"'Almighty Jove, who giv'st and tak'st away The pains we mortals suffer, hear me pray!'

(So cries the mother of a child whose cold, Or ague rather, now is five months old) 'Cure my poor boy, and he shall stand all bare In Tiber, on thy fast, in morning air.'

So if, by chance or treatment, the attack Should pa.s.s away, the wretch will bring it back, And give the child his death: 'tis madness clear; But what produced it? superst.i.tious fear."

Such were the arms Stertinius, next in sense To the seven sages, gave me for defence.

Now he that calls me mad gets paid in kind, And told to feel the pigtail stuck behind.

H. Good Stoic, may you mend your loss, and sell All your enormous bargains twice as well.

But pray, since folly's various, just explain What type is mine? for I believe I'm sane.

D. What? is Agave conscious that she's mad When she holds up the head of her poor lad?

H. I own I'm foolish--truth must have her will-- Nay, mad: but tell me, what's my form of ill?

D. I'll tell you. First, you build, which means you try To ape great men, yourself some two feet high, And yet you laugh to see poor Turbo fight, When he looks big and strains beyond his height.

What? if Maecenas does a thing, must you, His weaker every way, attempt it too?

A calf set foot on some young frogs, they say, Once when the mother chanced to be away: One 'scapes, and tells his dam with bated breath How a huge beast had crushed the rest to death: "How big?" quoth she: "is this as big?" and here She swelled her body out. "No, nothing near."

Then, seeing her still fain to puff and puff, "You'll burst," gays he, "before you're large enough."

Methinks the story fits you. Now then, throw Your verses in, like oil to feed the glow.

If ever poet yet was sane, no doubt, You may put in your plea, but not without.

Your dreadful temper--

H. Hold.

D. The sums you spend Beyond your income--

H. Mind yourself, my friend.

D. And then, those thousand flames no power can cool.

H. O mighty senior, spare a junior fool!

SATIRE IV.

UNDE ET QUO CATIUS?

HORACE. CATIUS.

HORACE.

Ho, Catius! whence and whither?

C. Not to-day: I cannot stop to talk: I must away To set down words of wisdom, which surpa.s.s The Athenian sage and deep Pythagoras.

H. Faith, I did ill at such an awkward time To cross your path; but you'll forgive the crime: If you've lost aught, you'll get it back ere long By nature or by art; in both you're strong.

C. Ah, 'twas a task to keep the whole in mind, For style and matter were alike refined.

H. But who was lecturer? tell me whence he came.

C. I give the precepts, but suppress the name.

The oblong eggs by connoisseurs are placed Above the round for whiteness and for taste: Procure them for your table without fail, For they're more fleshy, and their yolk is male.

The cabbage of dry fields is sweeter found Than the weak growth of washed-out garden ground.

Should some chance guest surprise you late at night, For fear the new-killed fowl prove tough to bite, Plunge it while living in Falernian lees, And then 'twill be as tender as you please.

Mushrooms that grow in meadows are far best; You can't be too suspicious of the rest.

He that would pa.s.s through summer without hurt Should eat a plate of mulberries for dessert, But mind to pluck them in the morning hour, Before the mid-day sun exerts its power.

Aufidius used Falernian, rich and strong, To mingle with his honey: he did wrong: For when the veins are empty, 'tis not well To pour in fiery drinks to make them swell: Mild gentle draughts will better do their part In nourishing the c.o.c.kles of the heart.

In costive cases, limpets from the sh.e.l.l Are a cheap way the evil to dispel, With groundling sorrel: but white Coan neat You'll want to make the recipe complete.

For catching sh.e.l.l-fish the new moon's the time, But there's a difference between clime and clime; Baiae is good, but to the Lucrine yields; Circeii ranks as best for oyster-fields; Misenum's cape with urchins is supplied; Flat bivalve mussels are Tarentum's pride.

Let no man fancy he knows how to dine Till he has learnt how taste and taste combine.

'Tis not enough to sweep your fish away From the dear stall, and chuckle as you pay, Not knowing which want sauce, and which when broiled Will tempt a guest whose appet.i.te is spoiled.

The man who hates wild boars that eat like tame Gets his from Umbria, genuine mast-fed game: For the Laurentian beast, that makes its fat Off sedge and reeds, is flavourless and flat.

The flesh of roes that feed upon the vine Is not to be relied on when you dine.

With those who know what parts of hare are best You'll find the wings are mostly in request.

Fishes and fowls, their nature and their age, Have oft employed the attention of the sage; But how to solve the problem ne'er was known By mortal palate previous to my own.

There are whose whole invention is confined To novel sweets: that shows a narrow mind; As if you wished your wines to be first-rate, But cared not with what oil your fish you ate.

Put Ma.s.sic wine to stand 'neath a clear sky All night, away the heady fumes will fly, Purged by cool air: if 'tis through linen strained, You spoil the flavour, and there's nothing gained.

Who mix Surrentine with Falernian dregs Clear off the sediment with pigeons' eggs: The yolk goes down; all foreign matters sink Therewith, and leave the beverage fit to drink.

'Tis best with roasted shrimps and Afric snails To rouse your drinker when his vigour fails: Not lettuce; lettuce after wine ne'er lies Still in the stomach, but is sure to rise: The appet.i.te, disordered and distressed, Wants ham and sausage to restore its zest; Nay, craves for peppered viands and what not, Fetched from some greasy cookshop steaming hot.

There are two kinds of sauce; and I may say That each is worth attention in its way.

Sweet oil's the staple of the first; but wine Should be thrown in, and strong Byzantine brine.

Now take this compound, pickle, wine, and oil, Mix it with herbs chopped small, then make it boil, Put saffron in, and add, when cool, the juice Venafrum's choicest olive-yards produce.

In taste Tiburtian apples count as worse Than Picene; in appearance, the reverse.

For pots, Venucule grapes the best may suit: For drying, Albans are your safer fruit.

'Twas I who first, authorities declare, Served grapes with apples, lees with caviare, White pepper with black salt, and had them set Before each diner as his private whet.

'Tis gross to squander hundreds upon fish, Yet pen them cooked within too small a dish.

So too it turns the stomach, if there sticks Dirt to the bowl wherein your wine you mix; Or if the servant, who behind you stands, Has fouled the beaker with his greasy hands.

Brooms, dish-cloths, saw-dust, what a mite they cost!

Neglect them though, your reputation's lost.

What? sweep with dirty broom a floor inlaid, Spread unwashed cloths o'er tapestry and brocade, Forgetting, sure, the less such things entail Of care and cost, the more the shame to fail, Worse than fall short in luxuries, which one sees At no man's table but your rich grandees'?

H. Catius, I beg, by all that binds a friend, Let me go with you, when you next attend; For though you've every detail at command, There's something must be lost at second hand.

Then the man's look, his manner--these may seem Mere things of course, perhaps, in your esteem, So privileged as you are: for me, I feel An inborn thirst, a more than common zeal, Up to the distant river-head to mount, And quaff these precious waters at their fount.