Book I, Epistle 1, lines 10-19, 41-61, 94-108
[Latin original, ed. E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2nd
edn., 1877]
Nunc
itaque et versus et cetera ludicra pono,
Quid
verum atque decens, curo et rogo et omnis in hoc sum;
Condo
et compono quae mox depromere possim.
Ac
ne forte roges quo me duce, quo lare tuter,
Nullius
addictus iurare in verba magistri,
Quo
me cumque rapit tempestas, deferor hospes.
Nunc
agilis fio et mersor civilibus undis,
Virtutis
verae custos rigidusque satelles;
Nunc
in Aristippi furtim praecepta relabor,
Et
mihi res, non me rebus subiungere conor.
[…]
Virtus
est vitium fugere et sapientia prima
Stultitia
caruisse. Vides quae maxima credis
Esse
mala, exiguum censum turpemque repulsam,
Quanto
devites animi capitisque labore.
Impiger
extremos curris mercator ad Indos,
Per
mare pauperiem fugiens, per saxa, per ignes:
Ne
cures ea, quae stulte miraris et optas,
Discere
et audire, et meliori credere non vis?
Quis
circum pagos et circum compita pugnax
Magna
coronari contemnat Olympia, cui spes,
Cui
sit condicio dulcis sine pulvere palmae?
Vilius
argentum est auro, virtutibus aurum.
‘O
ciues, ciues, quaerenda pecunia primum est;
Virtus
post nummos!’ Haec Ianus summus ab imo
Prodocet,
haec recinunt iuvenes dictata senesque,
Laeuo
suspensi loculos tabulamque lacerto.
Est
animus tibi, sunt mores, est lingua fidesque;
Sed
quadringentis sex septem milia desunt;
Plebs
eris. At pueri ludentes, ‘Rex eris’ aiunt,
‘Si
recte facies.’ Hic murus aeneus esto,
Nil
conscire sibi, nulla pallescere culpa.
[…]
Si
curatus inaequali tonsore capillos
Occurri,
rides; si forte subucula pexae
Trita
subest tunicae vel si toga dissidet impar,
Rides:
quid mea cum pugnat sententia secum,
Quod
petiit spernit, repetit quod nuper omisit,
Aestuat
et uitae disconuenit ordine toto,
Diruit,
aedificat, mutat quadrata rotundis?
Insanire
putas sollemnia me neque rides,
Nec
medici credis nec curatoris egere
A praetore
dati, rerum tutela mearum
Cum
sis et prave sectum stomacheris ob unguem
De
te pendentis, te respicientis amici.
Ad
summam: sapiens uno minor est Iove, dives,
Liber,
honoratus, pulcher, rex denique reguml
Praecipue
sanus, nisi cum pituita molesta est.
[Christopher Smart, 1756, Everyman
Library, 1911]
Now therefore I lay aside both verses,
and all other sportive matters; my study and inquiry is after what is true and fitting,
and I am wholly engaged in this: I lay up, and collect rules which I may be
able hereafter to bring into use. And lest you should perchance ask under what
leader, in what house [of philosophy], I enter myself a pupil: addicted to
swear implicitly to the ipse-dixits of no particular master, wherever the
weather drives me, I am carried a guest. One while I become active, and am
plunged in the waves of state affairs, a maintainer and a rigid partisan of
strict virtue; then again I relapse insensibly into Aristippus’ maxims, and endeavour
to adapt circumstances to myself, not myself to circumstances.
[...]
It is virtue, to fly vice; and the
highest wisdom to have lived free from folly. You see with what toil of mind
and body you avoid those things which you believe to be the greatest evils, a
small fortune and a shameful repulse. An active merchant, you run to the
remotest Indies, fleeing poverty through sea, through rocks, through flames.
And will you not learn, and hear, and be advised by one who is wiser, that you
may no longer regard those things which you foolishly admire and wish for? What
little champion of the villages and of the streets would scorn being crowned at
the great Olympic games, who had the hopes and happy opportunity of victory
without toil? Silver is less valuable than gold, gold than virtue.
“O citizens, citizens, money is to be sought
first; virtue after riches:” this the highest Janus from the lowest inculcates;
young men and old repeat these maxims, having their bags and account-books hung
on the left arm. You have soul, have breeding, have eloquence and honour: yet
if six or seven thousand sesterces be wanting to complete your four hundred
thousand, you shall be a plebeian. But boys at play cry, “You shall be king, if
you will do right.” Let this be a [man’s] brazen wall, to be conscious of no
ill, to turn pale with no guilt.
[...]
If I meet you with my hair badly cut
by the barber, you laugh [at me]: if I chance to have a ragged shirt under a
handsome coat, or if my disproportioned gown fits me ill, you laugh. What [do
you do], when my judgment contradicts itself? it despises what it before
desired; seeks for that which lately it neglected; is all in a ferment, and is
inconsistent in the whole tenor of life; pulls down, builds up, changes square
to round. In this case, you think I am mad in the common way, and you do not
laugh, nor believe that I stand in need of a physician, or of a guardian
assigned by the praetor; though you are the patron of my affairs, and are disgusted
at the ill-pared nail of a friend that depends upon you, that reveres you.
In a word, the wise man is inferior to
Jupiter alone, is rich, free, honourable, handsome, lastly, king of kings;
above all, he is sound, unless when phlegm is troublesome.
[John Conington, 1874]
So now I bid my idle songs
adieu,
And turn my thoughts to
what is right and true;
I search and search, and
when I find, I lay
The wisdom up against a
rainy day.
But what’s my sect? you ask
me; I must be
A member sure of some
fraternity:
Why no; I’ve taken no man’s
shilling; none
Of all your fathers owns me
for his son;
Just where the weather drives
me, I invite
Myself to take up quarters
for the night.
Now, all alert, I cope with
life’s rough main,
A loyal follower in true
virtue’s train:
Anon, to Aristippus’ camp I
flit,
And say, the world’s for
me, not I for it.
[...]
To fly from vice is virtue:
to be free
From foolishness is wisdom’s
first degree.
Think of some ill you feel
a real disgrace,
The loss of money or the
loss of place;
To keep yourself from
these, how keen the strain!
How dire the sweat of body
and of brain!
Through tropic heat, o’er
rocks and seas you run
To furthest India, poverty
to shun,
Yet scorn the sage who
offers you release
From vagrant wishes that
disturb your peace.
Take some provincial
pugilist, who gains
A paltry cross-way prize
for all his pains;
Place on his brow Olympia’s
chaplet, earned
Without a struggle, would
the gift be spurned?
Gold counts for more than
silver, all men hold:
Why doubt that virtue
counts for more than gold?
“Seek money first, good
friends, and virtue next,”
Each Janus lectures on the
well-worn text;
Lads learn it for their
lessons; grey-haired men,
Like schoolboys, drawl the
sing-song o’er again.
You lack, say, some six
thousand of the rate
The law has settled as a
knight's estate;
Though soul, tongue,
morals, credit, all the while
Are yours, you reckon with
the rank and file.
But mark those children at
their play; they sing,
“Deal fairly, youngster,
and we’ll crown you king.”
Be this your wall of brass,
your coat of mail,
A guileless heart, a cheek
no crime turns pale.
[...]
If, when we meet, I’m cropped
in awkward style
By some uneven barber, then
you smile;
You smile, if, as it haps,
my gown’s askew,
If my shirt's ragged while
my tunic’s new:
How, if my mind's
inconsequent, rejects
What late it longed for,
what it loathed affects,
Shifts every moment, with
itself at strife,
And makes a chaos of an
ordered life,
Builds castles up, then
pulls them to the ground,
Keeps changing round for
square and square for round?
You smile not; ‘tis an
every-day affair;
I need no doctor’s, no, nor
keeper’s care:
Yet you’re my patron, and
would blush to fail
In taking notice of an
ill-pared nail.
So, to sum up: the sage is
half divine,
Rich, free, great,
handsome, king of kings, in fine;
A miracle of health from
toe to crown;
Mind, heart, and head, save
when his nose runs down.
[H. Rushton Fairclough, 1926, rev.
1929, Loeb Classical Library]
So now I lay aside my verses and all
other toys. What is right and seemly is my study and pursuit, and to that am I
wholly given. I am putting by and setting in order the stores on which I may
some day draw. Do you ask, perchance, who is my chief, in what home I take
shelter? I am not bound, over to swear as any master dictates; wherever the
storm drives me, I turn in for comfort. Now I become all action, and plunge
into the tide of civil life, stern champion and follower of true Virtue; now I
slip back stealthily into the rules of Aristippus, and would bend the world to
myself, not myself to the world.
[...]
To flee vice is the beginning of
virtue, and to have got rid of folly is the beginning of wisdom. You see with
what anxious thought and peril of life you strive to avoid those ills you deem
the greatest, a slender fortune and the shame of failure at the polls. Ardent
trader that you are, you rush to the furthest Indies, fleeing poverty through
sea, through rocks, through flame: but that you may cease to care for the
things which you foolishly admire and crave, will you not learn and listen and
trust one wiser than yourself? What wrestler in the village games and at the
cross-ways would scorn being crowned at the great Olympic games, who had the
hope, who had the surety of victory’s palm without the dust?
Of less worth than gold is silver,
than virtue gold. “O citizens, citizens, money you first must seek; virtue
after pelf.” This rule the Janus arcade proclaims from top to bottom; this is
the lesson the old as well as the young are singing, “with slate and satchel
slung over the left arm.” You have sense, you have morals, eloquence and
honour, but there are six or seven thousands short of the four hundred; you
will be in the crowd. Yet boys at play cry; “You’ll be king, if you do right.”
Be this our wall of bronze, to have no guilt at heart, no wrongdoing to turn us
pale.
[...]
If, when some uneven barber has
cropped my hair, I come your way, you laugh; if haply I have a tattered shirt
beneath a new tunic, or if my gown sits badly and askew, you laugh. What, when
my judgement is at strife with itself, scorns what it craved, asks again for
what it lately cast aside; when it shifts like a tide, and in the whole system
of life is out of joint, pulling down, building up, and changing square to
round? You think my madness is the usual thing, and neither laugh at me nor
deem that I need a physician or a guardian assigned by the court, though you
are keeper of my fortunes, and flare up at an ill-pared nail of the friend who
hangs upon you and looks to you in all.
To sum up: the wise man is less than
Jove alone. He is rich, free, honoured, beautiful, nay a king of kings; above
all, sound – save when troubled by the “flu”!
[Niall Rudd, 1979, rev. 1987, 1997
& 2005, Penguin Classics]
So now I am laying aside my verses and
other amusements.
My sole concern is the question ‘What
is right and proper?’
I’m carefully storing things for use
in the days ahead.
In case you wonder whom I follow and
where I’m residing,
I don’t feel bound to swear obedience
to any master.
Where the storm drives me I put ashore
and look for shelter.
Now I’m a man of action and plunge
into civic affairs,
doing my highest duty with stern and
selfless devotion;
now I slip quietly back to the rules
of Aristippus, attempting
to induce things to conform to me, not
vice versa.
[...]
Virtue’s first rule is ‘avoid vice’,
and wisdom’s
‘get rid of folly’. Think of the
mental effort and physical
risk involved in shunning what you regard as the worst
of evils – slender assets and the
shame of a lost election.
You never cease – dashing away to
India on business,
keeping ahead of poverty through
ocean, rock and flame.
Why not trust one wiser than yourself?
Listen and learn.
Stop caring for the things your
foolishly gaze at and long for.
What wrestler at the village sports
and crossroad fairs
would refuse the great Olympic prize
if given the prospect,
and indeed the offer, of the palm’s glory
without the dust?
Silver is lower than gold in value,
gold than goodness.
‘Citizens, citizens, the first thing
to acquire is money.
Cash before conscience!’ This is
propounded from end to end
of Janus’ arcade, a lesson recited by
young and old
(swinging satchel and writing box from
the left arm).
Suppose you’ve gifts of mind and
character, fluent and loyal,
but are six or seven thousand short of
the great four hundred:
you’ll be one of the throng. But the
children chant ‘You will be king
if you do the right thing.’ So let
this be your wall of brass:
to have nothing on your conscience,
nothing to give you a guilty pallor.
[...]
If I’ve had a haircut from a rather
uneven barber, you laugh
when you meet me; if a grubby vest is
visible under my smart
tunic, or say my toga is askew and
sloppily folded,
you laugh. Yet what if my mind is all
at odds with itself,
rejects what it asked for, returns to
what it has just put down,
ebbs and flows, and disrupts my life’s
entire pattern,
demolishing then rebuilding, changing
square to round?
You accept my madness as normal. You
don’t laugh at all,
nor do you think I need a doctor or a
guardian assigned
by the court. And yet you are in
charge of all my affairs;
you even become annoyed with the
friend who looks to you
for support and protection, if his
nails have not been properly trimmed.
In brief, the sensible man is second
only to Jove.
He’s free, well thought of, handsome,
the very king of kings;
above all, he’s sound – when he hasn’t a blasted cold!
[John Davie, 2011, Oxford World’s
Classics]
So now I lay aside both verses and all
other trifles; what is right and fitting, that’s my interest and pursuit, and
in this I’m wholly absorbed; I store up and organize material so that I may be
able to draw upon it before long. And should you happen to ask who is my leader
and whose house offers me shelter, there’s no master I’m bound to swear loyalty
to, and wherever the weather drives me is where I seek a roof. Sometimes I
become active and take the plunge into civic life, an unwavering guardian and
attendant of true virtue; sometimes unconsciously I slip back into the rules of
Aristippus and I try to place circumstances under my control, not vice versa.
[...]
The beginning of virtue is the avoidance
of vice, and the beginning of wisdom to have got rid of folly. You see how
anxiously, how energetically, you seek to avoid those dangers you believe to be
most serious, a handful of cash in the bank and ignominious rejection at the
polls. Tireless trader that you are, you rush to furthest India, braving sea,
rocks, fire to keep poverty at bay: are you not prepared to learn and listen
and trust one who is wiser, in order to avoid caring about the things you
foolishly admire and crave? What brawler who goes the round of the villages and
crossways would turn up his nose at being crowned with an Olympic wreath, if he
had the hope or option of winning the much-prized palm without a struggle?
Silver is less valuable than gold and gold than virtue.
‘O citizens, citizens, first you must
seek money; virtue after cash’; this is the rule proclaimed by Janus from top
to bottom, this the instruction that young and old alike chant back, dangling satchels
and slate from left arm. You have sense, you have morals, you have eloquence and
honesty, but you are a few thousands short of the four hundred; you will prove
to be a nonentity. Yet boys at play cry, ‘Play by the rules and you’ll be
ruler!’ Let this be our wall of bronze, to have no guilty secrets, no crime to
turn us pale.
[...]
If I come your way with my hair cut
unevenly by some barber, you laugh; if by chance my brand-new tunic conceals a
tattered shirt, or my toga hangs awkwardly and askew, you laugh: how do you
take it when my judgement is at odds with itself, disowning what it desired,
eager to reclaim what it lately rejected, ebbing and flowing and clashing with
the whole system of life, knocking down, building up, and changing square to
round? You think my unreasonableness is the usual thing and neither laugh nor
believe I need a doctor or a guardian appointed by the praetor, though you are
the one who keeps my fortunes safe and gets angry at a badly cut fingernail of
the friend who hangs upon and is centred on you.
To sum up, the wise man is inferior to
Jupiter alone, being rich, free, honoured, beautiful, in short a king of kings:
above all he is sound, unless troubled by a cold.
Book I,
Epistle 2, lines 35-71
[Latin original, ed. E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2nd
edn., 1877]
Posces ante diem librum cum
lumine, si non
Intendes animum studiis et
rebus honestis,
Invidia vel amore vigil
torquebere. Nam cur
Quae laedunt oculum,
festinas demere, siquid
Est animum, differs curandi
tempus in annum?
Dimidium facti, qui coepit,
habet; sapere aude;
Incipe. Qui recte vivendi prorogat
horam
Rusticus exspectat dum
defluat amnis; at ille
Labitur et labetur in omne volubilis
aevum.
Quaeritur argentum
puerisque beata creandis
Uxor, et incultae pacantur vomere
silvae:
Quod satis est cui
contingit nihil amplius optet.
Non domus et fundus, non
aeris acervus et auri
Aegroto domini deduxit
corpore febres,
Non animo curas. Valeat
possessor oportet,
Si comportatis rebus bene
cogitat uti.
Qui cupit aut metuit, iuvat
illum sic domus et res
Ut lippum pictae tabulae,
fomenta podagram,
Auriculas citharae collecta
sorde dolentes.
Sincerum est nisi vas,
quodcumque infundis acescit.
Sperne voluptates: nocet
empta dolore voluptas.
Semper avarus eget: certum voto
pete finem.
Invidus alterius macrescit
rebus opimis:
Invidia Siculi non invenere
tyranni
Maius tormentum. Qui non
moderabitur irae
Infectum volet esse dolor
quod suaserit et mens,
Dum poenas odio per vim
festinat inulto.
Ira furor brevis est;
animum rege, qui nisi paret
Imperat; hunc frenis, hunc
tu compesce catena.
Fingit equum tenera docilem
cervice magister
Ire viam qua monstret
eques; venaticus, ex quo
Tempore cervinam pellem
latrauit in aula,
Militat in silvis catulus.
Nunc adbibe puro
Pectore verba puer, nunc te
melioribus offer.
Quo semel est imbuta recens
servabit odorem
Testa diu. Quodsi cessas
aut strenuus anteis,
Nec tardum opperior nec
praecedentibus insto.
[Christopher Smart, 1756, Everyman
Library, 1911]
...and unless before day you call for
a book with a light, unless you brace your mind with study and honest
employments, you will be kept awake and tormented with envy or with love. For
why do you hasten to remove things that hurt your eyes, but if anything gnaws
your mind, defer the time of curing it from year to year? He has half the deed done,
who has made a beginning. Boldly undertake the study of true wisdom: begin it
forthwith. He who postpones the hour of living well, like the hind [in the
fable], waits till [all the water in] the river be run off: whereas it flows,
and will flow, ever rolling on.
Money is sought, and a wife fruitful
in bearing children, and wild woodlands are reclaimed by the plough. [To what end
all this?] He that has got a competency, let him wish for no more. Not a house
and farm, nor a heap of brass and gold, can remove fevers from the body of
their sick master, or cares from his mind. The possessor must be well, if he
thinks of enjoying the things which he has accumulated. To him that is a slave
to desire or to fear, house and estate do just as much good as paintings to a
sore-eyed person, fomentations to the gout, music to ears afflicted with
collected matter. Unless the vessel be sweet, whatever you pour into it turns
sour. Despise pleasures: pleasure bought with pain is hurtful. The covetous man
is ever in want: set a certain limit to your wishes. The envious person wastes
at the thriving condition of another: Sicilian tyrants never in-vented a
greater torment than envy. He who will not curb his passion, will wish that undone
which his grief and resentment suggested, while he violently plies his revenge
with unsated rancour. Rage is a short madness. Rule your passion, which
commands, if it do not obey; do you restrain it with a bridle, and with
fetters. The groom forms the docile horse, while his neck is yet tender, to go
the way which his rider directs him: the young hound, from the time that he
barked at the deer's skin in the hall, campaigns it in the woods. Now, while
you are young, with an untainted mind imbibe instruction: now apply yourself to
the best [masters of morality]. A cask will long preserve the flavour, with which
when new it was once impregnated. But if you lag behind, or vigorously push on
before, I neither wait for the loiterer, nor strive to overtake those that
precede me.
[John Conington, 1874]
Unless you light your lamp
ere dawn and read
Some wholesome book that
high resolves may breed,
You’ll find your sleep go
from you, and will toss
Upon your pillow, envious,
lovesick, cross.
You lose no time in taking
out a fly,
Or straw, it may be, that
torments your eye;
Why, when a thing devours
your mind, adjourn
Till this day year all
thought of the concern?
Come now, have courage to
be wise: begin:
You’re halfway over when
you once plunge in:
He who puts off the time
for mending, stands
A clodpoll by the stream
with folded hands,
Waiting till all the water
be gone past;
But it runs on, and will,
while time shall last.
“Aye, but I must have
money, and a bride
To bear me children, rich
and well allied:
Those uncleared lands want
tilling.” Having got
What will suffice you, seek
no happier lot.
Not house or grounds, not
heaps of brass or gold
Will rid the frame of fever’s
heat and cold.
Or cleanse the heart of
care. He needs good health,
Body and mind, who would
enjoy his wealth:
Who fears or hankers, land
and country-seat
Soothe just as much as
tickling gouty feet,
As pictures charm an eye
inflamed and blear,
As music gratifies an
ulcered ear.
Unless the vessel whence we
drink is pure,
Whate'er is poured therein
turns foul, be sure.
Make light of pleasure: pleasure
bought with pain
Yields little profit, but
much more of bane.
The miser's always needy:
draw a line
Within whose bound your
wishes to confine.
His neighbour’s fatness
makes the envious lean:
No tyrant e’er devised a
pang so keen.
Who governs not his wrath
will wish undone
The deeds he did “when the
rash mood was on.”
Wrath is a short-lived
madness: curb and bit
Your mind: ‘twill rule you,
if you rule not it
While the colt’s mouth is
soft, the trainer's skill
Moulds it to follow at the
rider’s will.
Soon as the whelp can bay
the deer’s stuffed skin,
He takes the woods, and
swells the hunters’ din.
Now, while your system’s
plastic, ope each pore;
Now seek wise friends, and
drink in all their lore:
The smell that’s first
imparted will adhere
To seasoned jars through
many an after year.
But if you lag behind or
head me far,
Don’t think I mean to mend
my pace, or mar;
In my own jog-trot fashion
on I go,
Not vying with the swift,
not waiting for the slow.
[H. Rushton Fairclough, 1926, rev.
1929, Loeb Classical Library]
...so, if you don’t call for a book
and a light before daybreak, if you don’t devote your mind to honourable
studies and pursuits, envy or passion will keep you awake in torment. Why
indeed are you in a hurry to remove things which hurt the eye, while if aught
is eating into your soul, you put off the time for cure till next year? Well
begun is half done; dare to be wise; begin! He who puts off the hour of right
living is like the bumpkin waiting for the river to run out: yet on it glides,
and on it will glide, rolling its flood forever.
We seek money and a rich wife to bear
us children; the wild woods, too, are tamed by our plough: but he, to whose lot
sufficient falls, should covet nothing more. No house or land, no pile of
bronze or gold, has ever freed the owner’s sick body of fevers, or his sick
mind of cares. The possessor must be sound in health, if he thinks of enjoying
the stores he has gathered. To one with fears or cravings, house and fortune
give as much pleasure as painted panels to sore eyes, warm wraps to the gout,
or citherns to ears that suffer from secreted matter. Unless the vessel is
clean, whatever you pour in turns sour.
Scorn pleasures; pleasure bought with
pain is harmful. The covetous is ever in want: aim at a fixed limit for your
desires. The envious man grows lean when his neighbour waxes fat; than envy
Sicilian tyrants invented no worse torture. He who curbs not his anger will
wish that undone which vexation and wrath prompted, as he made haste with
violence to gratify his unsated hatred. Anger is short-lived madness. Rule your
passion, for unless it obeys, it gives commands. Check it with bridle – check
it, I pray you, with chains.
While the colt has a tender neck and
is able to learn, the groom trains him to go the way his rider directs. The
hound that is to hunt does service in the woods from the time that it first
barked at a deer-skin in the yard. Now, while still a boy, drink in my words
with clean heart, now trust yourself to your betters. The jar will long keep the
fragrance of what it was once steeped in when new. But if you lag behind, or
with vigour push on ahead, I neither wait for the slow nor press after those
who hurry on before.
[Niall Rudd, 1979, rev. 1987, 1997
& 2005, Penguin Classics]
Send for a book and a lamp before
daylight, and focus
your mind on noble aims and pursuits,
or else when you wake
you’ll be racked by desire or envy.
Why so quick to remove
a speck of dirt from your eye? And
yet, if anything eats at
your soul, you say: ‘Time enough to
attend to it next year.’
Well begun is half done. Dare to be
wise.
Start now. The man who postpones the
hour of reform
is the yokel who waits for the river
to pass; but it continues
and will continue gliding and rolling
for ever and ever.
I know, you need money and a wealthy
wife who will bear you
children; the wild scrub is being
subdued by the plough.
But when one’s blest with enough, one
shouldn’t long for more.
Possessing a house or farm or a pile
of bronze and gold
has never been known to expel a fever
from an invalid’s body
or a worry from his mind. Unless the
owner has sound health
he cannot hope to enjoy the goods he
has brought together.
A man with fear or desire has as much
pleasure from his house
and possessions as sore eyes from a
picture, gouty feet
from muffs, or ears from a lyre when
aching with lumps of dirt.
When a jar is unclean, whatever you
fill it with soon goes sour.
Despise pleasure: when the price is
pain, pleasure is harmful.
The greedy are never content; fix an
end to your longings.
Envious people waste away when their
neighbours thrive.
Envy is just as painful as any torture
invented
by the tyrants of Sicily. The main who
fails to control his rage
is sure to regret what his wounded
feelings caused him to do
when he took hasty and violent revenge
to ease his resentment.
Rage is a burst of madness. Restrain
your temper: unless it
obeys it
will rule you. Keep it in check with bridle and chain.
A colt with his tender neck is
pliable; hence the trainer
shapes him to go where the rider
wants. The hound begins
to hunt in the woods once it has
barked at a stag’s hide
in the yard. So now, when you’re still
a boy and your heart’s untainted,
attach yourself to your betters and
absorb their words and wisdom.
A jar retains for years the smell with
which it was tinged
when new. But mind, don’t dawdle or
press keenly ahead.
I never wait for the slow-coach or try
to catch the leaders!
[John Davie, 2011, Oxford World’s
Classics]
...and if you don’t call for a book
and lamp before daylight, if you don’t direct your attention to honourable studies
and pursuits, envy or love will keep you awake in torment. For why is it you
are in a hurry to remove things that hurt the eye but, if anything eats into your
soul, you put off the time for effecting a cure for a year? A task begun is
half done: dare to be wise: begin! The man who postpones the hour for right
living is like the countryman waiting for the river to stop flowing: but on it
glides and shall glide, rolling its waters for all time.
We are on the lookout for money and
for a rich wife to bear us children, and wild woodland is brought into
subjection by the plough. But the man whose lot it is to have what is
sufficient should pray for nothing more. No house or estate, no pile of bronze or
gold has ever relieved the sick body of an owner of its fevers, or his mind of
its worries. The possessor must have good health if he means to enjoy the
stores he has gathered. If a man is subject to fears and cravings, he gets as much
pleasure from his house and fortune as a man with eye-trouble does from
paintings, or that a gout-sufferer from foot-warmers, or someone whose ears are
painfully blocked gets from the playing of the lyre. Unless the receptacle is
clean, whatever you pour into it turns sour.
Scorn pleasures: pleasure does harm
when the cost is pain. The greedy man is always in need: look for a fixed limit
in your heart. The envious man grows thin when his neighbour’s fortunes grow
fat: Sicily’s tyrants never thought up a torture greater than envy. The man who
will not check his anger will wish undone what his indignant mood prompted,
when he was quick to seek retribution by force for his unappeased hatred. Anger
is short-lived madness: rule your passion, for if it does not obey you, it
gives you commands; restrain it with a bridle, restrain it, I tell you, with
chains.
A horse of pliant neck is guided by
its trainer, and readily learns to go the way its rider indicates; the young
hound marked out for hunting does service in the woods from the time it first barked
at a stag’s hide in the yard. Now, while still in your youth, drink in my words
with a clean heart, now trust yourself to your betters. The wine-jar will long
keep the fragrance of what tinged it for the first time. But whether you lag
behind or vigorously press ahead, I neither wait for the slowcoach nor tread on
the pace-setter’s heels.
Book I,
Epistle 16, lines 30-69
[Latin original, ed. E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2nd
edn., 1877]
Cum pateris sapiens
emendatusque vocari,
Respondesne tuo, dic sodes,
nomine? ‘Nempe
Vir bonus et prudens dici
delector ego ac tu.’
Qui dedit hoc hodie cras,
si volet, auferet, ut si
Detulerit fasces indigno,
detrahet idem.
‘Pone, meum est:’ inquit. Pono
tristisque recedo.
Idem si clamet furem, neget
esse pudicum,
Contendat laqueo collum
pressisse paternum,
Mordear opprobriis falsis
mutemque colores?
Falsus honor iuuat et
mendax infamia terret
Quem nisi mendosum et
medicandum? Vir bonus est quis?
‘Qui consulta patrum, qui
leges iuraque servat,
Quo multae magnaeque
secantur iudice lites,
Quo res sponsore et quo
causae teste tenentur.’
Sed videt hunc omnis domus
et vicinia tota
Introrsum turpem, speciosum
pelle decora.
‘Nec furtum feci nec fugi,’
si mihi dicat
Servus, ‘Habes pretium,
loris non ureris’, aio.
‘Non hominem occidi.’ ‘Non
pasces in cruce corvos.’
‘Sum bonus et frugi.’
Renuit negitatque Sabellus:
Cautus enim metuit foveam
lupus accipiterque
Suspectos laqueos et
opertum miluus hamum.
Oderunt peccare boni virtutis
amore;
Tu nihil admittes in te
formidine poenae:
Sit spes fallendi, miscebis
sacra profanis.
Nam de mille fabae modiis
cum subripis unum,
Damnum est, non facinus
mihi pacto lenius isto.
Vir bonus, omne forum quem
spectat et omne tribunal,
Quandocunque deos vel porco
vel bove placat,,
Iane pater! clare, clare
cum dixit, Apollo!
Labra movet metuens audiri:
‘Pulchra Laverna,
Da mihi fallere, da iusto
sanctoque videri,
Noctem peccatis et
fraudibus obice nubem.’
Qui melior servo, qui
liberior sit avarus,
In triviis fixum cum se
demittit ob assem,
Non video; nam qui cupiet
metuet quoque; porro,
Qui metuens uiuet, liber
mihi non erit unquam.
Perdidit arma, locum virtutis
deseruit, qui
Semper in augenda festinat
et obruitur re.
Vendere cum possis captivum
occidere noli;
[Christopher Smart, 1756, Everyman
Library, 1911]
...when you suffer yourself to be termed
a philosopher, and one of a refined life; say, pr’ythee, would you answer [to
these appellations] in your own name? To be sure I like to be called a wise and
good man, as well as you. He who gave this character to-day, if he will, can
take it away to-morrow: as the same people, if they have conferred the
consulship on an unworthy person, may take it away from him: “Resign; it is
ours,” they cry: I do resign it accordingly, and chagrined withdraw. Thus if
they should call me rogue, deny me to be temperate, assert that I had strangled
my own father with a halter; shall I be stung, and change colour at these false
reproaches? Whom does false honour delight, or lying calumny terrify, except
the vicious and sickly-minded? Who then is a good man? He who observes the decrees
of the senate, the laws and rules of justice; by whose arbitration many and
important disputes are decided; by whose surety private property, and by whose testimony
causes are safe. Yet [perhaps] his own family and all the neighbourhood observe
this man, specious in a fair outside, [to be] polluted within. If a slave
should say to me, “I have not committed a robbery, nor run away: “You have your
reward; you are not galled with the lash,” I reply. “I have not killed any man:
“You shall not [therefore] feed the carrion crows on the cross.” I am a good
man, and thrifty: your Sabine friend denies, and contradicts the fact. For the
wary wolf dreads the pitfall, and the hawk the suspected snares, and the kite
the concealed hook. The good, [on the contrary,] hate to sin from the love of
virtue; you will commit no crime merely for the fear of punishment. Let there
be a prospect of escaping, you will confound sacred and profane things
together. For, when from a thousand bushels of beans you filch one, the loss in
that case to me is less, but not your villainy. The honest man, whom every
forum and every court of justice looks upon with reverence, whenever he makes
an atonement to the gods with a swine or an ox; after he has pronounced in a
clear distinguishable voice, “O father Janus, O Apollo;” moves his lips as one
afraid of being heard; “O fair Laverna, put it in my power to deceive; grant me
the appearance of a just and upright man: throw a cloud of night over my
frauds.” I do not see how a covetous man can be better, how more free than a
slave, when he stoops down for the sake of a penny, stuck in the road. For he
who will be covetous, will also be anxious: but he that lives in a state of
anxiety, will never in my estimation be free. He who is always in a hurry, and
immersed in the study of augmenting his fortune, has lost the arms, and
deserted the post of virtue. Do not kill your captive, if you can sell him...
[John Conington, 1874]
Yet should the town
pronounce you wise and good,
You’d take it to yourself,
you know you would.
“Take it? of course I take
it,” you reply;
“You love the praise
yourself, then why not I?”
Aye, but the town, that
gives you praise to-day,
Next week can snatch it, if
it please, away,
As in elections it can mend
mistakes,
And whom it makes one year,
the next unmakes.
“Lay down the fasces,” it
exclaims; “they’re mine:”
I lay them down, and
sullenly resign.
Well now, if “Thief” and “Profligate”
they roar,
Or lay my father’s murder
at my door,
Am I to let their lying
scandals bite
And change my honest cheeks
from red to white?
Trust me, false praise has
charms, false blame has pains
But for vain hearts, long
ears, and addled brains.
Whom call we good? The man
who keeps intact
Each law, each right, each
statute and each act,
Whose arbitration
terminates dispute,
Whose word’s a bond, whose
witness ends a suit.
Yet his whole house and all
the neighbours know
He’s bad at heart, despite
his decent show.
“I,” says a slave, “ne’er
ran away nor stole:”
Well, what of that? say I:
your skin is whole.
“I’ve shed no blood.” You
shall not feed the crow.
“I’m good and true.” We
Sabine folks say No:
The wolf avoids the pit,
the hawk the snare,
And hidden hooks teach
fishes to beware.
‘Tis love of right that
keeps the good from wrong;
You do no harm because you
fear the thong;
Could you be sure that no
one would detect,
E’en sacrilege might tempt
you, I suspect.
Steal but one bean,
although the loss be small,
The crime’s as great as if you
stole them all.
See your good man, who oft
as he appears
In court commands all
judgments and all ears;
Observe him now, when to
the gods he pays
His ox or swine, and listen
what he says:
“Great Janus, Phœbus” – this
he speaks aloud;
The rest is muttered all
and unavowed –
“Divine Laverna, grant me
safe disguise;
Let me seem just and
upright in men’s eyes;
Shed night upon my crimes,
a glamour o’er my lies.”
Say, what’s a miser but a
slave complete
When he’d pick up a penny
in the street?
Fearing’s a part of
coveting, and he
Who lives in fear is no
freeman for me.
The wretch whose thoughts
by gain are all engrossed
Has flung away his sword,
betrayed his post.
Don’t kill your captive:
keep him: he will sell;
[H. Rushton Fairclough, 1926, rev.
1929, Loeb Classical Library]
When you suffer yourself to be called
wise and flawless, do you answer, pray tell me, in your own name? “To be sure,
I like to be called a good man and wise, even as you do.” But they who gave you
this title to-day will, if they so please, take it away to-morrow; even as, if
they bestow the lictor’s rods on one unworthy, they will likewise wrest them
from him. “Put that down, ’tis ours,” they say. I do so, and sadly withdraw. If
the same people were to cry after me “Thief!”, call me “Profligate,” insist
that I strangled my father, ought I to be stung by such lying charges, and
change colour? Whom does false honour delight, whom does lying calumny
affright, save the man who is full of flaws and needs the doctor?
Who is the “good man”? “He who
observes the Senate’s decrees, the statutes and laws; whose judgement settles
many grave suits; whose surety means safety for property; whose testimony wins
suits at law.” Yet this very man all his household and all his neighbours see
to be foul within, though fair without, under his comely skin. If a slave were
to say to me, “I never stole or ran away”: my reply would be, “You have your
reward; you are not flogged.” “I never killed anyone.” “You’ll hang on no cross
to feed crows.” “I am good and honest.” Our Sabine friend shakes his head and
says, “No, no!” For the wolf is wary and dreads the pit, the hawk the suspected
snare, the pike the covered hook. The good hate vice because they love virtue;
youc will commit no crime because you dread punishment. Suppose there’s a hope
of escaping detection; you will make no difference between sacred and profane.
For when from a thousand bushels of beans you steal one, my loss in that case
is less, but not your sin. This “good man,” for forum and tribunal the cynosure
of every eye, whenever with swine or ox he makes atonement to the gods, cries
with loud voice “Father Janus,” with loud voice “Apollo,” then moves his lips,
fearing to be heard: “Fair Laverna, grant me to escape detection; grant me to
pass as just and upright, shroud my sins in night, my lies in clouds!”
How the miser is better than a slave,
or is more free, when he stoops at the cross-roads to pick up the copper
fastened there, I do not see: for he who covets will also have fears; further,
he who lives in fear, will never, to my mind, be free. A man has lost his
weapons, has quitted his post with Virtue, who is ever busied and lost in
making money. When you can sell a captive, don’t kill him: he will make a
useful slave.
[Niall Rudd, 1979, rev. 1987, 1997
& 2005, Penguin Classics]
When you allow yourself to be called
‘wise and faultless’,
do tell me, is the name you
acknowledge really yours?
‘Well, I enjoy being called “good” and
“wise”, as you do.’
What the public gave today it can
take, if it likes, tomorrow;
it tears the badge of office from one
who has proved a failure.
‘Drop it, it’s mine.’ I drop it, and
walk sadly away.
If the public came after me, shouting
“Thief!” and “Lecher!”,
and alleged I had strangled my own
father with a knotted cord,
should I be hurt by such false charges,
and change colour?
False honour delights, and lying
slander dismays,
no one, unless he’s flawed and infirm.
So who is the good man?
‘He who abides by the senate’s decrees
and the laws and statutes;
who as an arbiter settles many
important cases,
as a sponsor ensures payment, as a
witness victory in court.’
But his own household and his
neighbours, one and all, can see
he’s rotten inside, and owes his
appeal to a handsome skin..
‘I haven’t stolen or run away’ – if
one of my slaves
said that, I’d answer: ‘As a reward
you’re not being flogged.’
‘I haven’t committed murder.’ ‘You
won’t feed crows on a cross.’
‘I’m sound and honest.’ The Sabine
shakes his head in dissent.
The wary wolf is afraid of the pit,
the hawk of the snare,
which it rightly treats with
suspicion, and the pike of the hidden hook.
The truly good eschew sin from a love
of virtue.
You refrain from crime,
because you’re afraid of punishment.
If you thought no one would notice,
you’d rob the gods themselves.
When, from a thousand bushels, you
steal a single bean,
the loss is slighter on that account,
but not the crime.
Your good man, who commands the
respect of the bench and board,
when he offers a pig or an ox appease
the wrath of the gods,
utters aloud ‘Father Janus’ or
‘Apollo’, and then
mutters in a furtive, inaudible
whisper ‘Lovely Laverna
grant I may cheat, and be thought a
fine and holy man;
cover my sins in darkness and in
clouds my acts of deception.’
I fail to see in what respect a miser
is better
or freer than a slave, when he stoops
at a cross for the sake of a coin
stuck in the ground. For desire
entails fear, and to me
the man who is subject to fear will
never attain freedom.
When a person rushes about, engrossed
in making money,
he throws away his weapons and deserts
the post of Virtue.
If you take him prisoner, don’t kill
him – you’ll get something for him.
[John Davie, 2011, Oxford World’s
Classics]
...in allowing yourself to be called wise
and free from vice, aren’t you replying, do tell me, with your own name? ‘Well,
of course I enjoy being called a good and wise man as much as you do.’ But
those who gave you this title today will, if they want, they take it away
tomorrow, just as, if they confer the fasces on someone unworthy, they will
snatch them away from the very same man. ‘Lay them down, they’re ours,’ they
say: I lay them down and sadly withdraw. If the selfsame people should shout
after me, ‘Thief!’ and call me a pervert, or allege that I had strangled my
father, am I to be upset by their lying accusations and change colour? Who
takes pleasure in false honour or is alarmed by slanderous ill-repute except a
man who is full of flaws or in need of a doctor?
Who is the good man? ‘He who observes
the decrees of the senate, the laws and privileges, whose verdict resolves many
weighty legal disputes, whose surety ensures that property is retained, whose
testimony that cases are won.’ But this man is seen by everyone under his roof
and all his neighbours to be ugly inside, though a creature fair to the eye
with his attractive hide. Should a slave say to me, ‘I am no thief or runaway’,
my reply would be, ‘You have your reward, you escape a flogging.’ ‘I haven’t
killed a person.’ ‘You won’t feed the crows on a cross.’ ‘I’m honest and serve
you well.’ His Sabine owner throws back his head and says, ‘No, no!’ For the wary
wolf fears the pitfall, the hawk the suspected snare, and the pike the hidden
hook. Good men are loath to do wrong because they love virtue: you won’t be likely to commit a crime because
you fear punishment: let there be any hope of escaping detection and you’ll
make no difference between holy and unholy. For when you steal one bushel of
beans from a thousand, it’s the loss, in my eyes, not the crime that’s more
tolerable on that account.
The ‘good man’, who attracts the eyes
of all the forum and every public platform, whenever he seeks to appease the
gods, be it with a pig or an ox, cries out in a loud voice ‘Father Jupiter!’,
in a loud voice ‘Apollo!’, but moves his lips, fearing to be heard: ‘Fair
Laverna, grant that I escape detection, grant that I appear to be just and
upright, veil my sins in darkness, my deceptions in clouds.’
In what respect the miser is better or
more free than a slave when he stoops to pick up a coin fixed to the pavement
at crossroads, I do not see; for the one who harbours desires will also harbour
fears; besides, the man who lives in fear will never be free in my eyes. A man
loses his weapons and quits the post of bravery if he never ceases to rush
around and is overwhelmed in making his money greater. Since you can sell a
prisoner of war, don’t kill him; he will make a useful slave...
Book I,
Epistle 18, lines 3-20
[Latin original, ed. E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2nd
edn., 1877]
Ut matrona meretrici dispar
erit atque
Discolor, infido scurrae
distabit amicus.
Est huic diversum vitio vitium
prope maius,
Asperitas agrestis et
inconcinna gravisque,
Quae se commendat tonsa
cute, dentibus atris,
Dum volt libertas dici mera
veraque virtus.
Virtus est medium vitiorum
et utrimque reductum.
Alter in obsequium plus
aequo pronus et imi
Derisor lecti sic nutum divsitis
horret,
Sic iterat voces et verba
cadentia tollit,
Ut puerum saevo credas
dictata magistro
Reddere uel partis mimum
tractare secundas;
Alter rixatur de lana saepe
caprina,
Propugnat nugis armatus: ‘Scilicet,
ut non
Sit mihi prima fides et, vere
quod placet, ut non
Acriter elatrem? Pretium
aetas altera sordet.’
Ambigitur quid enim? Castor
sciat an Dolichos plus;
Brundisium Minuci melius via
ducat an Appi.
[Christopher Smart, 1756, Everyman
Library, 1911]
As a matron is unlike and of a
different aspect from a strumpet, so will a true friend differ from the
toadeater. There is an opposite vice to this, rather the greater[of the two]; a
clownish, inelegant, and disagreeable bluntness, which would recommend itself
by an unshaven face and black teeth; while it desires to be termed pure freedom
and true sincerity. Virtue is the medium of the two vices; and equally remote
from either. The one is over-prone to complaisance, and a jester of the lowest
couch, he so reverences the rich man's nod, so repeats his speeches, and
catches up his falling words; that you would take him for a school-boy saying his
lesson to a rigid master, or a player acting an underpart: another often
wrangles about a goat's hair, and armed engages for any trifle: “That I, truly,
should not have the first credit; and that I should not boldly speak aloud,
what is my real sentiment [upon such terms,] another life would be of no value.”
But what is the subject of this controversy? Why, whether [the gladiator]
Castor or Dolichos be the cleverer fellow; whether the Minucian, or the Appian,
be the better road to Brundusium?
[John Conington, 1874]
‘Twixt parasite and friend
a gulf is placed,
Wide as between the wanton
and the chaste;
Yet think not flattery
friendship’s only curse:
A different vice there is,
perhaps a worse,
A brutal boorishness, which
fain would win
Regard by unbrushed teeth
and close-shorn skin,
Yet all the while is
anxious to be thought
Pure independence, acting
as it ought.
Between these faults ‘tis
Virtue’s place to stand,
At distance from the
extreme on either hand.
The flatterer by
profession, whom you see
At every feast among the
lowest three,
Hangs on his patron’s
looks, takes up each word
Which, dropped by chance,
might else expire unheard,
Like schoolboys echoing
what their masters say
In sing-song drawl, or
Gnatho in the play:
While your blunt fellow
battles for a straw,
As though he’d knock you
down or take the law:
“How now, good sir? you
mean my word to doubt?
When I once think a thing,
I mayn’t speak out?
Though living on your terms
were living twice,
Instead of once, 'twere
dear at such a price.”
And what’s the question
that brings on these fits?—
Does Dolichos or Castor
make more hits?
Or, starting for
Brundisium, will it pay
To take the Appian or
Minucian way?
[H. Rushton Fairclough, 1926, rev.
1929, Loeb Classical Library]
As matron and mistress will differ in
temper and tone, so will the friend be distinct from the faithless parasite.
There is a vice the opposite of this – perhaps a greater one – a clownish
rudeness, awkward and offensive, which commends itself by scraped skin and
black teeth, while fain to pass for simple candour and pure virtue. Virtue is a
mean between vices, remote from both extremes. The one man, over-prone to
servility, a jester of the lowest couch, so reveres the rich man’s nod, so
echoes his speeches, and picks up his words as they fall, that you would think
a schoolboy was repeating his lessons to a stern master or a mime-player acting
a second part. The other man wrangles often about goat’s wool, and donning his
armour fights for trifles: “To think, forsooth, that I should not find credence
first, or that I should not blurt out strongly what I really think! A second
life were poor at such a price.” Why, what’s the question in dispute? Whether
Castor or Dolichosa has more skill; which is the better road to Brundisium,
that of Minucius or that of Appius!
[Niall Rudd, 1979, rev. 1987, 1997
& 2005, Penguin Classics]
As a lady differs from a whore in
appearance as well as in character;
so one can always tell a friend from
bogus sponger.
There is also an opposite vice to
this, and almost worse:
namely a boorish rudeness, out of
place and abrasive,
which affects a close-cropped style of
hair and discoloured teeth
in the hope of passing for absolute
candour and genuine virtue.
Virtue is a mean between vices,
distant from both extremes.
The first is a clown, over-inclined to
servility; sitting
beside the host, he anxiously watches
the rich man’s nod,
echoes his words, and prevents the
pearls from falling unheeded.
He’s like a schoolboy repeating his
lesson, phrase by phrase,
to a brutal teacher, or a mime acting
the second part.
The other often wrangles on how to
define a tomato.
He dons his armour to fight about
non-issues: ‘Imagine!
Not to receive instant credence! Not
to yell out
what I really think! A second life
would be poor compensation.’
And what is the question? ‘Is Castor or
Smart the cleverer fighter?’
‘Is the Appian or the Minucian the
better road to Brindisi?’
[John Davie, 2011, Oxford World’s
Classics]
As a married woman will differ from a
prostitute and have a different way of life, so a friend will be distinct from
an untrustworthy hanger-on. The vice that is the opposite to this one is almost
greater, a boorish moroseness, jarring and offensive, that seeks to recommend
itself with hair clipped to the skin and black teeth, while wishing to pass for
undiluted candour and true virtue. Virtue is a mean between vices, remote from
both extremes. The one man inclines more than is appropriate towards
compliance, and, a mocker on the lowest couch, so reveres the rich man’s nod,
so repeats his words and picks up his remarks as they fall unnoticed, that you’d
believe it was a schoolboy repeating the lessons dictated by a severe teacher,
or someone performing the second part of a mime. The other comes to blows often
over goat’s wool, and fights his corner armed with trifles: ‘To think, if you
please, that I shouldn’t be believed before anyone else, that I shouldn’t bark
out fiercely what I really think! A second life isn’t reward enough.’ Well, what’s
the point at issue? Whether Castor or Dolichos has more skill; whether the
Minucian or the Appian Way is the better road to Brundisium.
Book II,
Epistle 1, lines 18-33, 90-133
[Latin original, ed. E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2nd
edn., 1877]
Sed tuus hic populus,
sapiens et iustus in uno
Te nostris ducibus, te
Grais anteferendo
Cetera nequaquam simili
ratione modoque
Aestimat, et nisi quae
terris semota suisque
Temporibus defuncta videt,
fastidit et odit;
Sic fautor veterum, ut
tabulas peccare vetantis
Quas bis quinque viri
sanxerunt, foedera regum
Vel Gabiis vel cum rigidis
aequata Sabinis,
Pontificum libros, annosa volumina
vatum
Dictitet Albano Musas in
monte locutas.
Si, quia Graiorum sunt
antiquissima quaeque
Scripta vel optima, Romani
pensantur eadem
Scriptores trutina, non est
quod multa loquamur:
Nihil intra est oleam, nil
extra est in nuce duri;
Venimus ad summum fortunae;
pingimus atque
Psallimus et luctamur Achivis
doctius unctis.
[...]
Quod si tam Graecis novitas
invisa fuisset
Quam nobis, quid nunc esset
vetus? aut quid haberet
Quod legeret tereretque
uiritim publicus usus?
Ut primum positis nugari
Graecia bellis
Coepit et in vitium fortuna
labier aequa,
Nunc athletarum studiis,
nunc arsit equorum,
Marmoris aut eboris fabros
aut aeris amavit,
Suspendit picta voltum
mentemque tabella,
Nunc tibicinibus, nunc est
gavisa tragoedis;
Sub nutrice puella velut si
luderet infans,
Quod cupide petiit mature
plena reliquit.
Quid placet aut odio est,
quod non mutabile credas?
Hoc paces habuere bonae ventique
secundi.
Romae dulce diu fuit et
sollemne reclusa
Mane domo vigilare, clienti
promere iura,
Cautos nominibus rectis
expendere nummos,
Maiores audire, minori
dicere, per quae
Crescere res posset, minui
damnosa libido.
Mutavit mentem populus levis
et calet uno
Scribendi studio; pueri
patresque severi
Fronde comas vincti cenant
et carmina dictant.
Ipse ego, qui nullos me
adfirmo scribere versus
Invenior Parthis mendacior,
et prius orto
Sole vigil calamum et
chartas et scrinia posco.
Navem agere ignarus navis
timet; habrotonum aegro
Non audet nisi qui didicit
dare; quod medicorum est
Promittunt medici; tractant
fabrilia fabri:
Scribimus indocti doctique
poemata passim.
Hic error tamen et levis
haec insania quantas
Virtutes habeat sic
collige: vatis avarus
Non temere est animus; versus
amat, hoc studet unum;
Detrimenta, fugas servorum,
incendia ridet;
Non fraudem socio puerove
incogitat ullam
Pupillo; vivit siliquis et
pane secundo;
Militiae quamquam piger et
malus, utilis urbi,
Si das hoc, parvis quoque
rebus magna iuvari.
Os tenerum pueri balbumque
poeta figurat,
Torquet ab obscenis iam
nunc sermonibus aurem,
Mox etiam pectus praeceptis
format amicis,
Asperitatis et invidiae
corrector et irae;
Recte facta refert,
orientia tempora notis
Instruit exemplis, inopem
solatur et aegrum.
Castis cum pueris ignara
puella mariti
Disceret unde preces, vatem
ni Musa dedisset?
[Christopher Smart, 1756, Everyman
Library, 1911]
But this your people, wise and just in
one point, (for preferring you to our own, you to the Grecian heroes), by no
means estimate other things with like proportion and measure: and disdain and
detest everything, but what they see removed from earth and already gone by; such
favourers are they of antiquity, as to assert that the Muses [themselves] upon
Mount Alba dictated the twelve tables, forbidding to transgress, which the
decemviri ratified; the leagues of our kings concluded with the Gabii, or the
rigid Sabines; the records of the pontifices, and the ancient volumes of the
augurs. If, because the most ancient writings of the Greeks are also the best,
Roman authors are to be weighed in the same scale, there is no need we should
say much: there is nothing hard in the inside of an olive, nothing [hard] in
the outside of a nut. We are arrived at the highest pitch of success [in arts]:
we paint, and sing, and wrestle more skilfully than the anointed Greeks.
[...]
Whereas if novelty had been detested
by the Greeks as much as by us, what at this time would there have been ancient
? Or what would there have been for common use to read, and thumb common to
every body? When first Greece, her wars being over, began to trifle, and
through prosperity to glide into folly; she glowed with the love one while of
wrestlers, another while of horses; was fond of artificers in marble, or in
ivory, or in brass; hung her looks and attention upon a picture; was delighted
now with musicians, now with tragedians; as if an infant girl, she sported
under the nurse; soon cloyed, she abandoned what [before] she earnestly
desired. What is there that pleases, or is odious, which you may not think
mutable? This effect had happy times of peace, and favourable gales [of
fortune].
At Rome it was long pleasing and
customary to be up early with open doors, to expound the laws to clients; to
lay out money cautiously upon good securities; to hear the elder, and to tell
the younger by what means their fortunes might increase, and pernicious luxury
be diminished. The inconstant people have changed their mind, and glow with a universal
ardour for learning: young men and grave fathers sup crowned with leaves, and
dictate poetry. I myself, who affirm that I write no verses, am found more
false than the Parthians: and, awake before the sun is risen, I call for my pen
and papers and desk. He that is ignorant of a ship, is afraid to work a ship;
none but he who has learned, dares administer [even] southernwood to the sick;
physicians undertake what belongs to physicians; mechanics handle tools; but
we, unlearned and learned, promiscuously write poems.
Yet how great advantages this error
and this slight madness has, thus compute: the poet’s mind is not easily covetous;
fond of verses, he studies this alone; he laughs at losses, flights of slaves,
fires; he contrives no fraud against his partner, or his young ward; he lives
on husks, and brown bread; though dastardly and unfit for war, he is useful at home,
if you allow this, that great things may derive assistance from small ones. The
poet fashions the child’s tender and lisping mouth, and turns his ear even at
this time from obscene language; afterwards also he forms his heart with friendly
precepts, the corrector of his rudeness and envy and passion; he records
virtuous actions, he instructs the rising age with approved examples, he
comforts the indigent and the sick. Whence should the virgin, stranger to a
husband, with the chaste boys, learn the solemn prayer, had not the muse given
a poet?
[John Conington, 1874]
But this wise nation, which
for once thinks true,
That nought in Greece or
here can rival you,
To all things else a
different test applies,
And looks on living worth
with jaundiced eyes:
While, as for ancient
models, take the code
Which to the ten wise men
our fathers owed,
The treaties made ‘twixt
Gabii’s kings and Home’s,
The pontiffs’ books, the
bards’ forgotten tomes,
They’ll swear the Muses
framed them every one
In close divan on Alba’s
Helicon.
But what's the argument?
the bards of Greece
And those of Rome must
needs be of a piece;
As there the oldest hold
the foremost place,
So here, ‘twould seem, the
same will be the case.
Is this their reasoning?
they may prove as well
An olive has no stone, a
nut no shell.
Soon, flattered by such
dexterous logic, we
Shall think we’ve gained
the summit of the tree;
In art, in song our rivals
we outdo,
And, spite of all their
oil, in wrestling too.
[...]
Had Greece but been as
carping and as cold
To new productions, what
would now be old?
What standard works would
there have been, to come
Beneath the public eye, the
public thumb?
When, having done with
fighting, Greece began
To care for trifles that
refine the man,
And, borne aloft on Fortune’s
full flood-tide,
Went drifting on to luxury
and pride,
Of athletes and of steeds
by turns she raved,
Loved ivory, bronze, and
marble deftly graved
Hung raptured on a
painting, mind and eye,
Now leant to music, now to
tragedy,
Like a young child that
hankers for a toy,
Then throws it down when it
begins to cloy.
With change of fortune
nations change their minds:
So much for happy peace and
prosperous winds.
At Rome erewhile men rose
by day-break, saw
Their clients at their
homes, laid down the law,
Put money at good interest
out to loan
Secured by names
responsible and known,
Explained to younger folk,
or learned from old,
How wealth might be
increased, expense controlled.
Now our good town has taken
a new fit:
Each man you meet by poetry
is bit;
Pert boys, prim fathers
dine in, wreaths of bay,
And ‘twixt the courses
warble out their lay.
E’en I, who vow I never
write a verse,
Am found as false as
Parthia, maybe worse;
Before the dawn I rouse
myself, and call
For pens and parchment,
writing-desk and all.
None dares be pilot who
ne'er steered a craft;
No untrained nurse
administers a draught;
None but skilled workmen
handle workmen's tools:
But verses all men scribble,
wise or fools.
And yet this scribbling is
a harmless craze,
And boasts in fact some few
redeeming traits.
Avarice will scarce find
lodging in a heart
Whose every thought is
centred on its art;
He lays no subtle schemes,
your dreamy bard,
To circumvent his partner
or his ward;
Content with pulse and
bread of ration corn,
Fires, losses, runaways he
laughs to scorn;
Useless in camp, at home he
serves the state,
That is, if small can
minister to great.
His lessons form the child’s
young lips, and wean
The boyish ear from words
and tales unclean;
As years roll on, he moulds
the ripening mind,
And makes it just and
generous, sweet and kind;
He tells of worthy
precedents, displays
The example of the past to
after days,
Consoles affliction, and
disease allays.
Had Rome no poets, who
would teach the train
Of maids and spotless
youths their ritual strain?
[H. Rushton Fairclough, 1926, rev.
1929, Loeb Classical Library]
Yet this people of yours, so wise and
just in one respect, in ranking you above our own, above Greek leaders, judges
all other things by a wholly different rule and method, and scorns and detests all
save what it sees has passed from earth and lived its days. So strong is its
bias toward things ancient, that the Tables forbidding transgression, which the
ten men enacted, treaties in which our kings made equal terms with Gabii or the
sturdy Sabines, the Pontiffs’ records, the mouldy scrolls of seers – these, it
tells us over and over, were spoken by the Muses on the Alban mount.
If, because among Greek writings the
oldest are quite the best, we are to weigh Roman writers in the same balance,
there is no need of many words. The olive has no hardness within, the nut has
none without; we have come to fortune’s summit; we paint, we play and sing, we
wrestle with more skill than the well-oiled Greeks.
[...]
But if novelty had been as offensive
to the Greeks as it is to us, what in these days would be ancient? What would
the public have to read and thumb, each according to his taste?
From the day she dropped her wars,
Greece took to trifling, and amid fairer fortunes drifted into folly: she was
all aglow with passion, now for athletes, now for horses; she raved over
workers in marble or ivory or bronze; with eyes and soul she hung enraptured on
the painted panel; her joy was now in flautists, and now in actors of tragedy.
Like a baby-girl playing at its nurse s feet, what she wanted in impatience,
she soon, when satisfied, cast off. What likes and dislikes are there that you
would not think easily changed? Such was the effect of happy times of peace and
prosperous gales.
At Rome it was long a pleasure and habit
to be up at dawn with open doors, to set forth the law for clients, to pay out
to sound debtors money under bonds, to give ear to one’s elders and to tell
one’s juniors how an estate might be increased and ruinous indulgence curbed.
The fickle public has changed its taste and is fired throughout with a
scribbling craze; sons and grave sires sup crowned with leaves and dictate
their lines. I myself, who declare that I write no verses, prove to be more of
a liar than the Parthians: before sunrise I wake, and call for pen, paper, and
writing-case. A man who knows nothing of a ship fears to handle one; no one
dares to give southernwood to the sick unless he has learnt its use; doctors
undertake a doctor’s work; carpenters handle carpenters’ tools: but, skilled or
unskilled, we scribble poetry, all alike.
And yet this craze, this mild madness,
has its merits. How great these are, now consider. Seldom is the poet’s heart
set on gain: verses he loves; this is his one passion. Money losses, runaway
slaves, fires – he laughs at all. To cheat partner or youthful ward he never
plans. His food is pulse and coarse bread. Though a poor soldier, and slow in
the field, he serves the State, if you grant that even by small things are
great ends helped. The poet fashions the tender, lisping lips of child-hood;
even then he turns the ear from unseemly words; presently, too, he moulds the
heart by kindly precepts, correcting roughness and envy and anger. He tells of
noble deeds, equips the rising age with famous examples, and to the helpless
and sick at heart brings comfort. Whence, in company with chaste boys, would
the unwedded maid learn the suppliant hymn, had the Muse not given them a bard?
[Niall Rudd, 1979, rev. 1987, 1997
& 2005, Penguin Classics]
But this people of yours, though wise
and right in exalting
you [Augustus] alone above other
rulers, Greek or Roman,
judges everything else by quite a
different system
and standard: unless a thing has
patently had its day
and passed from the scene, they treat
it with disgust and aversion.
They are so biased in favour of the
old, they like to insist
that the criminal code which the Ten
enacted, the regal treaties
fairly struck with Gabii’s men or the
tough old Sabines,
the pontiff’s ancient tomes and the
musty scrolls of the prophets
were all proclaimed on the Alban Mount
by the Muses in person!
True – with the Greeks the oldest
writing in every genre
is quite the best. But if, in
consequence, Roman writers
are judged by the same procedure, we
needn’t go any further –
a nut hasn’t a shell; there’s no stone
in an olive!
Rome as a country is top dog; so of
course it follows
that in painting, music and wrestling
we surpass the oily Achaeans!
[...]
Suppose the Greeks had resented
newness as much as we do,
what would now be old? And what would
the people have
to read and thumb with enjoyment, each
man to his taste?
As soon as Greece abandoned war and
turned to amusements,
lapsing into frivolity as fortune
smiled upon her,
she developed a feverish craze for
either athletes or horses,
or fell in love with craftsmen in
ivory, bronze, or marble;
she acquired a hang-up gazing at
surfaces covered with paint,
and became enraptured with pipers or
else with tragic actors.
Just like a baby playing under her
nurse’s eye,
she’d clamour for something, and then
grow bored and leave it alone.
Such were the blessings brought by the
prosperous winds of peace.
At Rome for years they had the
agreeable habit of rising
early, opening the door, and telling
the client his rights.
They would lend cash to reliable people
with good collateral,
hear from their elders and tell the
youngsters various ways
of increasing assets and cutting down
on ruinous pleasures.
But what likes and dislikes are not
subject to change?
Now the fickle public has changed; the
only hobby
that turns it on is writing; boys and
their stern progenitors
I myself, after swearing that I’m
writing no more poetry,
prove a worse than a Parthian liar;
for there I am,
awake before dawn and asking for pen,
paper and files.
If he knows nothing of sailing, a man
avoids the helm;
no one risks giving wormwood to a
patient, unless he’s trained;
doctors doctor; carpenters handle
carpenters’ tools;
but qualified or not we all go in for
scribbling verses!
Yet this aberration (or if you like,
this mild insanity)
has certain merits; for just think:
the soul of a poet
can hardly be greedy; verse is his
only love and concern.
Fires, losses, runaway slaves – he
smiles at the lot.
He never works out plans to cheat his
partner in business
or the boy in his charge. He lives on
pulse and second-rate bread.
He’s too idle to be much of a soldier;
yet he serves his country –
if you grant that minor activities
further major ends.
The poet shapes the tender faltering
speech of a child,
already turning the ear away from
coarse expressions.
Later he moulds the disposition by
kindly maxims,
using his voice to correct cruelty,
envy and temper.
He recounts noble actions, equips the
new generation
with old examples, and brings relief
to the poor and sick.
Where would innocent boys and girls
who are still unmarried
have learnt their prayers if the Muse
had not vouchsafed them a poet?
[John Davie, 2011, Oxford World’s
Classics]
But this people of yours, wise and
just in preferring you alone to our own leaders and to those of the Greeks,
values all else by a wholly different rule and method, scorning and having no
time for anything except what it sees has lived out its days and passed from
the earth; such enthusiasm does it show for things of the past that it insists
that the Tables forbidding criminal acts, enacted by the ten men, the treaties
of our kings made on equal terms with Gabii or the stern Sabines, the books of
the Pontiffs and the time-worn scrolls of prophets were spoken by the Muses on
the Alban Mount.
If, because all the earliest writings
of the Greeks are quite the best, Roman writers are weighed in the same
balance, there is no reason why we should say much: the olive has nothing hard
inside, the nut nothing hard outside; we have come to the peak of success; we
paint, play music, and wrestle with more skill than the well-oiled Achaeans.
[...]
But if the Greeks had found novelty as
offensive as we do, what would nowadays be old? Or what would the public have
as its property to read and thumb, each man to suit himself? From the time that
Greece abandoned her wars and began to engage in idle amusements, drifting into
frivolous habits as Fortune showed her favour, she burned with enthusiasm, now
for athletes, now for horses, and fell in love with sculptors who worked in
marble, ivory, or bronze, she stared with enraptured eyes and soul at painters’
panels and took delight now in flute-players, now in tragic actors. Like a baby
girl playing under her nurse’s watchful eye, what she eagerly desired to have
she soon abandoned when bored with it. What likes and dislikes are there that
you wouldn’t suppose could be easily changed? This was the effect of happy days
of peace and prosperous winds.
At Rome it was for a long time
agreeable and an honoured custom to be awake early with doors open, to furnish clients
with legal advice, to pay out secured money to honest debtors, to listen to one’s
elders, to tell a younger man by what means his property could be increased and
his ruinous self-indulgence curbed. The fickle people have changed their minds
and are on fire with a single passion – writing; sons and strict fathers take
dinner with their hair wreathed in leaves, dictating lines of verse. I myself,
who profess to write no verses, am discovered to be as great a liar as the
Parthians, waking before sunrise and calling for pen, writing paper, and
book-holders. A man who doesn’t know how to handle a ship is afraid of ships;
no man dares administer southernwood to someone ill unless he has learned its
use; doctors undertake the work of doctors; carpenters handle the tools of
carpenters: we write poems indiscriminately, whether we have poetic training or
not.
And yet this aberration, this mild
lunacy, has its merits; consider how great these are: a bard is rarely tainted
with avarice; verses are what he loves, this his one passion; financial loss,
slaves running away, fires, he laughs at; he doesn’t plan to practice any fraud
against a partner in business or a young ward; he lives on pulses and inferior
bread; although a poor soldier and an idle one, he does his city service, if
you allow this point, that even small things can assist great enterprises. The
poet moulds the soft, lisping mouth of a child, even then turning the ear away
from vulgar expressions, and in a short while shaping the heart by precepts for
friendship, correcting harshness and envy and anger; he tells of noble deeds,
equips the rising generation with famous examples, consoles the helpless and
sick at heart. From what source would the unmarried girl in concert with a
chaste boys learn prayers, if the Muse had not given them a bard?
Book II,
Epistle 2, lines 41-57, 116-144, 180-204
[Latin original, ed. E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2nd
edn., 1877]
Romae nutriri mihi contigit
atque doceri
Iratus Grais quantum
nocuisset Achilles.
Adiecere bonae paulo plus
artis Athenae,
Scilicet ut vellem curuo
dinoscere rectum
Atque inter silvas Academi
quaerere verum.
Dura sed emovere loco me
tempora grato,
Civilisque rudem belli
tulit aestus in arma
Caesaris Augusti non
responsura lacertis.
Unde simul primum me
dimisere Philippi,
Decisis humilem pennis
inopemque paterni
Et laris et fundi,
paupertas impulit audax,
Ut versus facerem; sed quod
non desit habentem
Quae poterunt unquam satis
expurgare cicutae,
Ni melius dormire putem
quam scribere uersus?
Singula de nobis anni
praedantur euntes;
Eripuere iocos, Venerem,
convivia, ludum;
Tendunt extorquere poemata;
quid faciam vis?
[...]
Proferet in lucem speciosa vocabula
rerum,
Quae priscis memorata
Catonibus atque Cethegis
Nunc situs informis premit
et deserta vetustas;
Adsciscet nova, quae
genitor produxerit usus.
Vehemens et liquidus
puroque simillimus amni
Fundet opes Latiumque
beabit divite lingua;
Luxuriantia compescet,
nimis aspera sano
Leuabit cultu, virtute
carentia tollet,
Ludentis speciem dabit et
torquebitur, ut qui
Nunc Satyrum, nunc agrestem
Cyclopa movetur.
Praetulerim scriptor
delirus inersque videri,
Dum mea delectent mala me vel
denique fallant,
Quam sapere et ringi. Fuit
haud ignobilis Argis,
Qui se credebat miros
audire tragoedos
In vacuo laetus sessor
plausorque theatre;
Cetera qui vitae servaret
munia recto
More, bonus sane vicinus,
amabilis hospes,
Comis in uxorem, posset qui
ignoscere seruis
Et signo laeso non insanire
lagenae,
Posset qui rupem et puteum vitare
patentem.
Hic ubi cognatorum opibus
curisque refectus
Expulit elleboro morbum
bilemque meraco
Et redit ad sese: ‘Pol, me
occidistis, amici,
Non servastis’ ait, ‘cui
sic extorta voluptas
Et demptus per vim mentis
gratissimus error.’
Nimirum sapere est abiectis
utile nugis,
Et tempestivum pueris
concedere ludum;
Ac non verba sequi fidibus
modulanda Latinis,
Sed verae numerosque
modosque ediscere vitae.
[...]
Gemmas, marmor, ebur,
Tyrrhena sigilla, tabellas,
Argentum, vestes Gaetulo
murice tinctas,
Sunt qui non habeant, est
qui non curat habere.
Cur alter fratrum cessare
et ludere et ungui
Praeferat Herodis palmetis
pinguibus, alter
Dives et inportunus ad
umbram lucis ab ortu
Silvestrem flammis et ferro
mitiget agrum,
Scit Genius, natale comes
qui temperat astrum,
Naturae deus humanae, mortalis
in unum
Quodque caput, voltu
mutabilis, albus et ater.
Utar, et ex modico quantum
res poscet, acervo
Tollam, nec metuam quid de
me iudicet heres,
Quod non plura datis invenerit;
et tamen idem
Scire volam quantum simplex
hilarisque nepoti
Discrepet et quantum
discordet parcus avaro.
Distat enim spargas tua
prodigus an neque sumptum
Invitus facias neque plura
parare labores,
Ac potius, puer ut festis
Quinquatribus olim,
Exiguo gratoque fruaris
tempore raptim.
Pauperies immunda domus
procul absit; ego, utrum
Nave ferar magna an parva,
ferar unus et idem.
Non agimur tumidis velis aquilone
secundo;
Non tamen adversis aetatem
ducimus austris,
Viribus, ingenio, specie, virtute,
loco, re,
Extremi primorum, extremis usque
priores.
[Christopher Smart, 1756, Everyman
Library, 1911]
It was my lot to have Rome for my
nurse, and to be instructed [from the Iliad] how much the exasperated Achilles
prejudiced the Greeks. Good Athens gave me some additional learning: that is to
say, to be able to distinguish aright line from a curve, and seek after truth
in the groves of Academus. But the troublesome times removed me from that
pleasant spot; and the tide of a civil war carried me away, unexperienced as I
was, into arms, [into arms] not likely to be a match for the sinews of Augustus
Caesar. Whence, as soon as [the battle of] Philippi dismissed me in an abject
condition, with my wings clipped, and destitute both of house and land, daring
poverty urged me on to the composition of verses: but now, having more than is
wanted, what medicines would be efficacious enough to cure my madness, if I did
not think it better to rest than to write verses.
The advancing years rob us of
everything: they have taken away my mirth, my gallantry, my revellings, and
play: they are now proceeding to force poetry from me. What would you have me
do?
[...]
Those who make bad verses are laughed
at: but they are pleased in writing, and reverence themselves; and if you are silent,
they, happy, fall to praising of their own accord whatever they have written.
But he who desires to execute a genuine poem, will with his papers assume the
spirit of an honest critic: whatever words shall have but little clearness and
elegance, or shall be without weight and held unworthy of estimation, he will
dare to displace: though they may recede with reluctance, and still remain in
the sanctuary of Vesta: those that have been long hidden from the people he kindly
will drag forth, and bring to light those expressive denominations of things
that were used by the Catos and Cethegi of ancient times, though now deformed
dust and neglected age presses upon them: he will adopt new words, which use,
the parent [of language], shall produce: forcible and perspicuous, and bearing
the utmost similitude to a limpid stream, he will pour out his treasures, and
enrich Latium with a comprehensive language. The luxuriant he will lop, the too
harsh he will soften with a sensible cultivation: those void of expression he
will discard: he will exhibit the appearance of one at play; and will be [in
his invention] on the rack, like [a dancer on the stage], who one while affects
the motions of a satyr, at another of a clumsy Cyclops.
I had rather be esteemed a foolish and
dull writer, while my faults please myself, or at least escape my notice, than
be wise and smart for it. There lived at Argos a man of no mean rank, who
imagined that he was hearing some admirable tragedians, a joyful sitter and
applauder in an empty theatre: who [nevertheless] could support the other
duties of life in a just manner; a truly honest neighbour, an amiable host,
kind toward his wife, one who could pardon his slaves, nor would rave at the
breaking of a bottle-seal: one who [had sense enough] to avoid a precipice, or
an open well. This man, being cured at the expense and by the care of his relations,
when he had expelled by the means of pure hellebore the disorder and melancholy
humour, and returned to himself; “By Pollux, my friends, (said he,) you have
destroyed, not saved me; from whom my pleasure is thus taken away, and a most
agreeable delusion of mind removed by force.”
In a word, it is of the first
consequence to be wise in the rejection of trifles, and leave childish play to
boys for whom it is in season, and not to scan words to be set to music for the
Roman harps, but [rather] to be perfectly an adept in the numbers and
proportions of real life.
[...]
Gems, marble, ivory, Tuscan statues,
pictures, silver-plate, robes dyed with Getulian purple, there are who cannot acquire;
and there are others, who are not solicitous of acquiring. Of two brothers, why
one prefers lounging, play, and perfume, to Herod's rich palm-tree groves; why
the other, rich and uneasy, from the rising of the light to the evening shade,
subdues his woodland with fire and steel: our attendant genius knows, who
governs the planet of our nativity, the divinity [that presides] over human
nature, who dies with each individual, of various complexion, white and black.
I will use, and take out from my
moderate stock, as much as my exigence demands: nor will I be under any
apprehensions what opinion my heir shall hold concerning me, when he shall find
[I have left him] no more than I had given me. And yet I, the same man, shall
be inclined to know how far an open and cheerful person differs from a
debauchee, and how greatly the economist differs from the miser. For there is
some distinction whether you throw away your money in a prodigal manner, or
make an entertainment without grudging, nor toil to accumulate more; or rather,
as formerly in Minerva’s holidays, when a school-boy, enjoy by starts the short
and pleasant vacation.
Let sordid poverty be far away. I,
whether borne in a large or small vessel, let me be borne uniform and the same.
I am not wafted with swelling sail before the north wind blowing fair: yet I do
not bear my course of life against the adverse south. In force, genius, figure,
virtue, station, estate, the last of the first-rate, [yet] still before those
of the last.
[John Conington, 1874]
At Rome I had my schooling,
and was taught
Achilles’ wrath, and all
the woes it brought;
At classic Athens, where I
went erelong,
I learnt to draw the line 'twixt
right and wrong,
And search for truth, if so
she might be seen,
In academic groves of
blissful green;
But soon the stress of
civil strife removed
My adolescence from the
scenes it loved,
And ranged me with a force
that could not stand
Before the might of Cæsar’s
conquering hand.
Then when Philippi turned
me all adrift
A poor plucked fledgeling,
for myself to shift,
Bereft of property,
impaired in purse,
Sheer penury drove me into
scribbling verse:
But now, when times are
altered, having got
Enough, thank heaven, at
least to boil my pot,
I were the veriest madman
if I chose
To write a poem rather than
to doze.
Our years keep taking toll
as they move on;
My feasts, my frolics are
already gone,
And now, it seems, my
verses must go too:
Bestead so sorely, what’s a
man to do?
[...]
Bad poets are our jest: yet
they delight,
Just like their betters, in
whate’er they write,
Hug their fool’s paradise,
and if you're slack
To give them praise,
themselves supply the lack.
But he who meditates a work
of art,
Oft as he writes, will act
the censor's part:
Is there a word wants
nobleness and grace,
Devoid of weight, unworthy
of high place?
He bids it go, though
stiffly it decline,
And cling and cling, like
suppliant to a shrine:
Choice terms, long hidden from
the general view,
He brings to day and
dignifies anew,
Which, once on Cato’s and
Cethegus’ lips,
Now pale their light and
suffer dim eclipse;
New phrases, in the world
of books unknown,
So use but father them, he
makes his own:
Fluent and limpid, like a
crystal stream,
He makes Rome’s soil with
genial produce teem:
He checks redundance,
harshnesses improves
By wise refinement, idle
weeds removes;
Like an accomplished
dancer, he will seem
By turns a Satyr and a
Polypheme;
Yet all the while ‘twill be
a game of skill,
Where sport means toil, and
muscle bends to will.
Yet, after all, I’d rather
far be blind
To my own faults, though
patent to mankind,
Nay, live in the belief
that foul is fair,
Than see and grin in
impotent despair.
There was an Argive
nobleman, 'tis said,
Who all day long had acting
in his head:
Great characters on shadowy
boards appeared,
While he looked on and
listened, clapped and cheered:
In all things else he
fairly filled his post,
Friendly as neighbour,
amiable as host;
Kind to his wife, indulgent
to his slave,
He’d find a bottle sweated
and not rave;
He’d scorn to run his head
against a wall;
Show him a pit, and he’d
avoid the fall.
At last, when quarts of
hellebore drunk neat,
Thanks to his kin, had
wrought a cure complete,
Brought to himself again, “Good
friends,” quoth he,
“Call you this saving? why,
‘tis murdering me;
Your stupid zeal has spoilt
my golden days,
And robbed me of a most
delicious craze.”
Wise men betimes will bid
adieu to toys,
And give up idle games to
idle boys;
Not now to string the
Latian lyre, but learn
The harmony of life, is my
concern.
[...]
“Gems, marbles, ivory,
Tuscan statuettes,
Pictures, gold plate,
Gætulian coverlets,
There are who have not; one
there is, I trow,
Who cares not greatly if he
has or no.
This brother loves soft
couches, perfumes, wine,
More than the groves of
palmy Palestine;
That toils all day,
ambitious to reclaim
A rugged wilderness with
axe and flame;
And none but he who watches
them from birth,
The Genius, guardian of
each child of earth,
Born when we're born and
dying when we die,
Now storm, now sunshine,
knows the reason why
I will not hoard, but,
though my heap be scant,
Will take on each occasion
what I want,
Nor fear what my next heir
may think, to find
There’s less than he
expected left behind;
While, ne’ertheless, I draw
a line between
Mirth and excess, the
frugal and the mean.
‘Tis not extravagance, but
plain good sense,
To cease from getting,
grudge no fair expense,
And, like a schoolboy out
on holiday,
Take pleasure as it comes,
and snatch one’s play.
“So ‘twill not sink, what
matter if my boat
Be big or little? still I
keep afloat,
And voyage on contented,
with the wind
Not always contrary, nor
always kind,
In strength, wit, worth,
rank, prestige, money-bags,
Behind the first, yet not
among the lags.
[H. Rushton Fairclough, 1926, rev.
1929, Loeb Classical Library]
At Rome I had the luck to be bred, and
taught how much Achilles’ wrath had harmed the Greeks.b Kindly Athens added
somewhat more training, so that, you know, I was eager to distinguish the straight
from the crooked, and to hunt for truth in the groves of Academe. But troublous
times tore me from that pleasant spot, and the tide of civil strife flung me, a
novice in war, amid weapons that were to be no match for the strong arms of
Caesar Augustus. Soon as Philippi gave me discharge therefrom, brought low with
wings clipped and beggared of paternal home and estate, barefaced poverty drove
me to writing verses. But now that I have sufficient store, what doses of
hemlock could ever suffice to cleanse my blood, if I were not to think it
better to slumber than to scribble verses?
The years, as they pass, plunder us of
all joys, one by one. They have stripped me of mirth, love, feasting, play;
they are striving to wrest from me my poems. What would you have me do?
[...]
Those who write poor verses are a
jest; yet they rejoice in the writing and revere themselves; and, should you
say nothing, they themselves praise whatever they have produced – happy souls!
But the man whose aim is to have wrought a poem true to Art’s rules, when he
takes his tablets, will take also the spirit of an honest censor. He will have
the courage, if words fall short in dignity, lack weight, or be deemed unworthy
of rank, to remove them from their place, albeit they are loth to withdraw, and
still linger within Vesta’s precincts. Terms long lost in darkness the good
poet will unearth for the people’s use and bring into the light – picturesque
terms which, though once spoken by a Cato and a Cethegus of old now lie low
through unseemly neglect and dreary age. New ones he will adopt which Use has
fathered and brought forth. Strong and clear, and truly like a crystal river,
he will pour forth wealth and bless Latium with richness of speech; he will
prune down rankness of growth, smooth with wholesome refinement what is rough, sweep
away what lacks force – wear the look of being at play, and yet be on the rack,
like a dancer who plays now a Satyr, and now a clownish Cyclops.
I should prefer to be thought a
foolish and clumsy scribbler, if only my failings please, or at least escape
me, rather than be wise and unhappy. Once at Argos there was a man of some
rank, who used to fancy that he was listening to wonderful tragic actors, while
he sat happy and applauded in the empty theatre – a man who would correctly
perform all other duties of life, a most worthy neighbour, an amiable host,
kind to his wife, one that could excuse his slaves, and not get frantic if the
seal of a flask were broken, one that could avoid a precipice or an open well. This
man was cured by his kinsmen’s help and care, but when with strong hellebore he
had driven out the malady and its bile, and had come to himself again, he
cried: “Egad! you have killed me, my friends, not saved me; for thus you have
robbed me of a pleasure and taken away perforce the dearest illusion of my
heart.”
In truth it is profitable to cast
aside toys and to learn wisdom; to leave to lads the sport that fits their age,
and not to search out words that will fit the music of the Latin lyre, but to
master the rhythms and measures of a genuine life.
[...]
Gems, marble, ivory, Tuscan vases,
paintings, plate, robes dyed in Gaetulian purple – there are those who have
not; there is one who cares not to have. Of two brothers one prefers, above
Herod’s rich palm-groves, idling and playing and the anointing of himself; the
other, wealthy and untiring, from dawn to shady eve subdues his woodland farm
with flames and iron plough. Why so, the Genius alone knows – that companion
who rules our star of birth, the god of human nature, though mortal for each
single life, and changing in countenance, white or black. I shall use and from
my modest heap take what need requires, nor shall I fear what my heir will
think of me, because he does not find more than I have given him. And yet,
withal, I shall wish to know how much the frank and cheerful giver is distinct
from the spendthrift, how much the frugal is at variance with the miserly. For
it does differ whether you scatter your money lavishly, or whether, while neither
reluctant to spend, nor eager to add to your store, you snatch enjoyment of the
brief and pleasant hour, like a schoolboy in the spring holidays. Far from me
be squalid want at home: yet, be my vessel large or small, I, the passenger
aboard, shall remain one and the same. Not with swelling sails are we borne
before a favouring north wind, yet we drag not out our life struggling with
southern gales; in strength, in wit, in person, in virtue, in station, in
fortune, behind the foremost, ever before the last.
[Niall Rudd, 1979, rev. 1987, 1997
& 2005, Penguin Classics]
I had the luck to be raised in Rome,
where I learned from my teacher
how much harm was done to the Greeks
by the wrath of Achilles.
Then a little more training was added
by Athens the good,
so that at least I was keen to
distinguish straight from crooked
and to go in search of truth among the
Academy’s trees.
But harsh times tore me away from that
pleasant spot,
and the billows swept the raw recruit
into a force
which would prove no match for the
brawny arms of Caesar Augustus.
Discharged by Philippi, there I was
with my wings clipped,
no longer a flyer and without my
family hearth and home.
At once our Lady Poverty, daring as
ever, impelled me
to turn out verses; but now that I
have enough to live on
my brain would surely be addled beyond
the power of hemlock
if I scribbled verses instead of
enjoying a night’s sleep!
As the years go by they rob us of one
thing after another.
Already they’ve taken fun, sex,
parties and sport;
now they’re pulling away my poems.
What shall I do then?
[...]
People who write incompetent verse are
a joke; however
they enjoy composing and treat themselves with sincere respect,
and if you say nothing they’ll actually praise their own productions.
But the man who wants to achieve a
poem of genuine quality
will take, along with his notebook,
the mind of a rigorous Censor.
Any words deficient in lustre or
lacking solidity,
or those which he deems unworthy of
honour, he will have the courage
to expel from their place, although
they may be reluctant to leave
and still hang back, seeking refuge in
Vesta’s temple.
He will do well to unearth words which
have long been hidden
from the people’s view, bringing to
light some splendid terms
employed in earlier days by Cato,
Cethegus and others,
which now lie buried by grimy dust and
the years’ neglect.
He will also admit some new ones,
proposed by their father Need.
Flowing strong and clear like an
unpolluted river
he will spread prosperity, enriching
the land with the wealth of his language.
He will show his skill and care by
pruning the over dense,
stripping untidy pieces, and taking
out the feeble.
In spite of the strain he will make it
seem like fun, as a dancer
who switches with ease from nimble
satyr to blundering Cyclops.
I’d sooner be thought a cracked and
incompetent writer
(provided my faults gave me pleasure or escaped my notice)
than know the truth, and grimace. A
well-known figure in Argos
used to think he was watching a splendid
tragic performance
as he sat alone excitedly clapping in
the empty theatre.
Apart from that he coped with the
daily business of life
perfectly well – a good neighbour, a
charming host,
kind to his wife, the sort who managed
to forgive his servants
and not go mad with rage if the seal
of a jar were broken,
who had no trouble avoiding a cliff or
an open well.
He was finally cured thanks to his
relatives’ care and expense.
But when the potent drug had done its
work, expelling
the harmful bile, and the man recovered,
he cried: ‘Ah god!
You’ve killed me, my friends, not
cured me; for now you’ve ruined my pleasure
by driving away the illusion which
gave me such delight.’
And yet it’s best to be sensible – to
throw away one’s toys
and leave to children the sort of
games that suit their age,
and instead of hunting for words to
set to the lyre’s music
to practise setting one’s life to the
tunes and rhythms of truth.
[...]
Jewels, ivory, marble, paintings,
Etruscan bronzes
silver plate, material dyed in African
purple –
some never have such things; some, I
know, never want them.
Of the two brothers one prefers an oil
massage
and a life of ease and pleasure to the
palms of Herod; the other,
rich and persistent, tames his
woodland property, burning
and digging from dawn to dusk. The
cause of the contrast is known
to none but the Genius – the friend
who controls the star of our birth,
the mortal god of human nature who
looks with a different
expression, bright or gloomy, on each
individual person.
I shall enjoy what I have and draw on
my modest supplies
as needed, without any fears about
what my heir may think of me
when he finds the estate has not
increased; and yet I shall also
try to observe the line which divides
generous living
from waste and marks the point where thrift
turns into meanness.
For it makes a difference whether you
splash your money around,
or without striving to acquire more
are not reluctant
to spend, but are eager, in fact, to
make the most of the short
and beautiful time, as schoolboys do
in the Easter vacation;
(let’s not think of a poor and squalid
household). For my part,
whether sailing in cruiser or dinghy,
I’ll remain one and the same.
My sails are not puffed out with the
north wind in my favour,
nor am I beating into the southern
gales of affliction.
In strength, talent, appearance,
valour, status and riches
my place is behind the leaders; but I
stay ahead of the last.
[John Davie, 2011, Oxford World’s
Classics]
I had the luck to be educated in Rome
and there to be taught how greatly Achilles’ anger harmed the Greeks. Kindly
Athens added a little more training, in the sense that I was eager to
distinguish between the straight and the crooked, and to search for truth amid the
groves of Academus. But the harshness of the times evicted me from that
pleasing spot, and the tide of civil war carried me, a novice in war, into an
army that was to prove no match for the strong arms of Caesar Augustus. As soon
as Philippi discharged me from there, brought down to earth with clipped wings
and stripped of my father’s home and estate, poverty made me bold and drove me
to write verse: but now that my means are sufficient, what doses of hemlock
will ever be able to cleanse my system of bile, if I didn’t think it better to
sleep than to write verses?
The years as they pass rob us of all
pleasures, one by one; they snatch away humour, love, feasting, play; they
strive to wrest my poems from me; what would you have me do?
[...]
Those who compose bad verses are
mocked; but they are delighted when they are writing and they are their own
admirers, happy souls, of their own accord praising whatever they have written,
should no comment come from you. But the man who desires to write a poem that
conforms to the rules of art will take up, along with his writing tablets, the
spirit of a conscientious censor; he will have the courage, if any words have
too little lustre or are lacking in weight or are thought unworthy of honour,
to remove them from their place, however reluctant they are to make way, still
lingering inside Vesta’s precincts: words long unknown to the people he will
kindly unearth and restore to the daylight, striking terms which were once uttered
by men like Cato and Cethegus but are now weighed down by unsightly neglect and
lonely old age; he will add to the register new words, sired by father Need:
forceful and clear and truly like an unsullied stream, he will pour forth his
resources and make Latium blessed with wealth of speech; he will cut back
overgrown foliage, smooth excessive roughness with salutary attention, and
remove what lacks vigour; he will give the impression of one amusing himself
but at the same time he will strain himself to the utmost, like a dancer who at
one moment dances the part of a Satyr, at another that of a clumsy Cyclops.
I should prefer to be thought a
deluded and incompetent writer, provided my defects please or at least escape
me, rather than to have my wits and bare my teeth in frustration. There was
once at Argos a man of respected family, who used to believe he was listening to
some wonderful tragic actors, as he sat happily giving his applause in a
theatre that was empty; all other civic duties he would perform in the correct
fashion, showing himself certainly as a good neighbour, a genial host,
agreeable to his wife, capable of showing mercy to his mercy and not becoming
frantic if the seal on a flagon of wine was broken, capable of avoiding a
precipice or uncovered well. When this man had been restored, thanks to the
regular assistance and care of his relatives, driving out his illness and bile
with undiluted hellebore, and had returned to his senses, he said, ‘I tell you,
friends, you have killed me, not saved me, in robbing me of my pleasure and
taking away by force my mind’s fondest illusion.’
Of course, it is expedient to cast
childish pastimes aside and to be wise, leaving to children the sport that
suits their age, and, instead of searching for words to fit the music of the Latin
lyre, to learn by heart the rhythms and measure of true life.
[...]
Gems, marble, ivory, Tuscan figurines,
paintings, silver plate, clothes dyed with Gaetulian purple – there are men who
do not have these, there is one who does not care to have them. Of two brothers
one prefers to Herod’s rich palm-groves being idle and having fun and enjoying an
oil massage, the other, wealthy and unflagging, from sunrise to evening’s
shadow tames his wooded estate with fire and steel. Why this is so, the Genius knows,
that companion who controls our birth-star, the god whose concern is human
nature, mortal throughout each man’s life, varying in features, bright and
gloomy. I shall enjoy what I have, taking from my modest heap as much as
occasion demands, and I shall not fear an heir’s judgement of me, for finding no
more than I have given him: and yet I shall also wish to know how the open and
genial giver is distinct from the spendthrift and how much the man of thrift is
at odds with the miser. For it makes a difference whether you scatter your
money indiscriminately or whether, neither reluctant to incur expense nor eager
to make more money, but rather as you used to do as a lad when Minerva’s
holiday came round, you snatch enjoyment of the brief but welcome time. Let us
not reckon with filthy poverty ever entering our home: for my own part, whether
I sail as a passenger on big ship or small, that passenger will be one and the
same man. I am not driven along by swelling sails or favourable wind from the
north, but nonetheless my life’s course is not in the teeth of southerly gales,
and in strength, talent, looks, character, situation, and means I am last of
the foremost, always ahead of the last.
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