Yet didst folly to fulness add, 'twere all one;
10 Now shall beauty to thirst be train'd or hunger's
Grim necessity; this is all my sorrow.
Then hold, wanton, upon the verge; to-morrow
Comes preposterous incapacitation.
XXII.
Suffenus, he, dear Varus, whom, methinks, you know,
Has sense, a ready tongue to talk, a wit urbane,
And writes a world of verses, on my life no less.
Ten times a thousand he, believe me, ten or more,
5 Keeps fairly written; not on any palimpsest,
As often, enter'd, paper extra-fine, sheets new,
New every roller, red the strings, the parchment-case
Lead-rul'd, with even pumice all alike complete.
You read them: our choice spirit, our refin'd rare wit,
10 Suffenus, O no ditcher e'er appeared more rude,
No looby coarser; such a shock, a change is there.
How then resolve this puzzle? He the birthday-wit,
For so we thought him—keener yet, if aught is so—
Becomes a dunce more boorish e'en than hedge-born boor,
15 If e'er he faults on verses; yet in heart is then
Most happy, writing verses, happy past compare,
So sweet his own self, such a world at home finds he.
Friend, 'tis the common error; all alike are wrong,
Not one, but in some trifle you shall eye him true
20 Suffenus; each man bears from heaven the fault they send,
None sees within the wallet hung behind, our own.
XXIII.
Needy Furius, house nor hoard possessing,
Bug or spider, or any fire to thaw you,
Yet most blest in a father and a step-dame,
Each for penury fit to tooth a flint-stone:
5 Is not happiness yours? a home united?
Son, sire, mother, a lathy dame to match him.