Avoid all prying; what you're told, keep back,
Though wine or anger put you on the rack;
Nor puff your own, nor slight your friend's pursuits,
Nor court the Muses when he'd chase the brutes.
'Twas thus the Theban brethren jarred, until
The harp that vexed the stern one became still.
Amphion humoured his stern brother: well,
Your friend speaks gently; do not you rebel:
No; when he gives the summons, and prepares
To take the field with hounds, and darts, and snares,
Leave your dull Muse to sulkiness and sloth,
That both may feast on dainties earned by both.
'Tis a true Roman pastime, and your frame
Will gain thereby, no less than your good name:
Besides, you're strong; in running you can match
The dogs, and kill the fiercest boar you catch:
Who plays like you? you have but to appear
In Mars's field to raise a general cheer:
Remember too, you served a hard campaign,
When scarce past boyhood, in the wars of Spain,
Beneath his lead who brings our standards home,
And makes each nook of earth a prize for Rome.
Just one thing more, lest still you should refuse
And show caprice that nothing can excuse:
Safe as you are from doing aught unmeet,
You sometimes trifle at your father's seat;
The Actian fight in miniature you play,
With boats for ships, your lake for Hadria's bay,
Your brother for your foe, your slaves for crews,
And so you battle till you win or lose.
Let your friend see you share his taste, he'll vow
He never knew what sport was like till now.
Well, to proceed; beware, if there is room
For warning, what you mention, and to whom;
Avoid a ceaseless questioner; he burns
To tell the next he talks with what he learns;
Wide ears retain no secrets, and you know
You can't get back a word you once let go.
Look round and round the man you recommend,
For yours will be the shame should he offend.
Sometimes we're duped; a protege dragged down
By his own fault must e'en be left to drown,
That you may help another known and tried,
And show yourself his champion if belied;
For when 'gainst him detraction forks her tongue,
Be sure she'll treat you to the same ere long.
No time for sleeping with a fire next door;
Neglect such things, they only blaze the more.
A patron's service is a strange career;
The tiros love it, but the experts fear.
You, while you're sailing on a prosperous tack,
Look out for squalls which yet may drive you back.
The gay dislike the grave, the staid the pert,
The quick the slow, the lazy the alert;
Hard drinkers hate the sober, though he swear
Those bouts at night are more than he can bear.
Unknit your brow; the silent man is sure
To pass for crabbed, the modest for obscure.
Meantime, while thoughts like these your mind engage,
Neglect not books nor converse with the sage;
Ply them with questions; lead them on to tell
What things make life go happily and well;
How cure desire, the soul's perpetual dearth?
How moderate care for things of trifling worth?
Is virtue raised by culture or self-sown?
What soothes annoy, and makes your heart your own?
Is peace procured by honours, pickings, gains,
Or, sought in highways, is she found in lanes?
For me, when freshened by my spring's pure cold
Which makes my villagers look pinched and old,
What prayers are mine? "O may I yet possess
The goods I have, or, if Heaven pleases, less!
Let the few years that Fate may grant me still
Be all my own, not held at others' will!
Let me have books, and stores for one year hence,
Nor make my life one flutter of suspense!"
But I forbear: sufficient 'tis to pray
To Jove for what he gives and takes away:
Grant life, grant fortune, for myself I'll find
That best of blessings, a contented mind.
XIX. TO MAECENAS.
PRISCO SI CREDIS.
If truth there be in old Cratinus' song,
No verse, you know, Maecenas, can live long
Writ by a water-drinker. Since the day
When Bacchus took us poets into pay
With fauns and satyrs, the celestial Nine
Have smelt each morning of last evening's wine.
The praises heaped by Homer on the bowl
At once convict him as a thirsty soul:
And father Ennius ne'er could be provoked
To sing of battles till his lips were soaked.
"Let temperate folk write verses in the hall
Where bonds change hands, abstainers not at all;"
So ran my edict: now the clan drinks hard,
And vinous breath distinguishes a bard.