The Satires of Horace and Persius

by Horace

without success and was therefore one which I could perhaps

  develop – though always below its inventor. I wouldn’t presume

  to snatch from his head the crown which he wears with such distinction.

  50 But I said he flowed muddily on, and that in the stuff he brought down

  there was often more to be removed than retained. Well now, do you

  with all your learning find nothing to fault in mighty Homer?

  Does your charming Lucilius let Accius’ tragedies pass without change?

  Does he not laugh at those lines of Ennius which fail in dignity,

  without speaking of himself as superior to the men he faults?

  So why shouldn’t we inquire as we read Lucilius’ writings

  whether it was his own harsh nature or that of his times

  which prevented his verses from being more finished and smoothly flowing

  than those of a man whose only concern is to force his matter

  60 into a framework of six feet, and who gaily produces

  two hundred lines before dinner and as many after –

  just like the Etruscan Cassius whose creative power was fiercer

  than a raging river and who, we are told, was burnt on a pyre

  made of his own books, cases and all?

  Very well,

  let us grant Lucilius had a charming and civilized wit; let us grant

  he was also more polished than the author of a crude verse never handled

  by the Greeks and than the older crowd of Roman poets;

  still, if fate had postponed his birth till our own day,

  he would file his work drastically down and prune whatever

  70 rambled beyond the proper limit, and in shaping his verses

  he would often scratch his head and nibble his nails to the quick.

  If you hope to deserve a second reading you must often employ

  the rubber at the end of your pencil. Don’t seek mass adulation.

  Be content with a few readers – or are you so mad

  as to want your poems dictated in shabby schools? Not me.

  ‘I’m happy if the better classes applaud me,’ as the dauntless Miss Tree

  remarked when hissed off the stage – she had only contempt for the rest.

  Should I be worried by that louse Carper, or suffer agonies

  because Demetrius sneers behind my back or the silly

  80 Fannius (toady of Hermogenes Tigellius) runs me down?

  I should like these poems to win the approval of Plotius and Varius,

  Maecenas and Virgil, Valgius, Octavius, and the excellent Fuscus;

  and I hope the Viscus brothers will enjoy them; I can also mention

  you, Pollio, without incurring any suspicion

  of flattery, you,

  Messalla, and your brother, and also you, Bibulus and Servius, and with them you, my candid Furnius,

  and several others whom I knowingly omit, though friends and men of

  letters. I should like them to find my work attractive,

  such as it is; I’d be sorry if it caused them disappointment.

  90 But you, Demetrius and you, Tigellius, do me a favour –

  go and wail to your lady pupils in their easy chairs.

  Off with you, boy; add this at once to my little volume.

  BOOK II

  SATIRE 1

  Although this poem serves as an introduction to the second book it was probably written later than the other pieces. It purports to explain why Horace continues to write satire – he can’t sleep, he is committed to writing, he comes from a long line of fighting men, he has an irresistible inner impulse, he is following the example of Lucilius, he is confident of avoiding prosecution. But the explanation is not quite what it appears to be, for each assertion is a subtle evasion of the point. Horace never actually says that his satire will be fearless and aggressive – naturally enough, for the other seven pieces are for the most part inoffensive. This poem, which is cast in the form of a dialogue with a distinguished legal expert, is therefore in essence a humorous charade, though it does contain some genuine information about Horace’s outlook on life and literature.

  To some I am too sharp in my satire and seem to be stretching

  the form beyond its legitimate limits; the rest maintain

  that whatever I write is slack and that a thousand verses like mine

  could be wound off every day. Please advise me, Trebatius;

  what am I to do?

  ‘Take a rest.’

  Not write verses at all,

  you mean?

  ‘I do.’

  Dammit you’re right; that would be the best thing.

  But I can’t get to sleep.

  ‘For sound sleep: take an oil massage;

  swim the Tiber three times; before retiring

  ensure that the system is thoroughly soaked in strong wine.

  Or, if you’re so carried away by this passion for writing,

  10

  try your hand at recounting the triumphs of Caesar. Your trouble

  will be most handsomely rewarded.’

  I only wish I could, sir;

  but I lack the power. Not everyone, after all, can portray

  lines of battle bristling with lances, Gauls dying

  with their spears splintered, or the wounded Parthian slipping from his steed.

  ‘But you could depict his fairness and courage, as Lucilius wisely

  did with Scipio.

  ‘I shan’t be found wanting when the chance occurs.

  If the moment isn’t right, then Floppy’s words won’t penetrate

  Caesar’s pricked-up ear. Rub him the wrong way

  20 and he’ll lash out right and left with his hooves in self-defence.

  ‘That would be infinitely better than writing acid verse

  which hurts Grab-all the sponger and the waster Nomentanus,

  and makes everyone, though quite unscathed, nervous and hostile.’

  What am I to do? Milonius dances when the heat mounts

  to his reeling brain, bringing a vision of double lights.

  Riding is Castor’s passion; boxing that of the twin

  born of the self-same egg. Take a thousand men, you’ll find

  a thousand hobbies. Mine is enclosing words in metre,

  as Lucilius did – a better man than either of us.

  30 He in the past would confide his secrets to his books, which he trusted

  like friends; and whether things went well or badly he’d always

  turn to them; in consequence, the whole of the old man’s life

  is laid before us, as if it were painted on a votive tablet.

  I follow him, as a son of Lucania – or is it Apulia?

  Because the Venusian settler ploughs on the border of both.

  He was sent out, as the story has it, after the Samnites

  were expelled, so that if the wild Apulian or Lucanian folk

  unleashed a war they might be prevented from dashing on Rome

  across the open space. But this steely point

  40 will never attack a living soul, unless provoked.

  I’ll carry it for self-defence, like a sword in its scabbard. Why bother

  to draw it so long as I’m safe from lawless attack? O Jupiter,

  father and king, grant that my weapon may hang there, corroding

  with rust, and that no one may injure a peace-loving man like me.

  But whoever stirs me up (better keep your distance, I’m telling you!)

  will be sorry; he’ll become a thing of derision throughout the city.

  When angry, Cervius points to the ballot-box and the laws;

  Canidia cows her opponents with the poison that did for Albucius;

  Turius threatens a heavy fine if you come before him;

  50 everyone uses his strongest weapon to frighten potential

  enemies. That is Nature’s royal decree. For consider:

  t
he wolf attacks with his fangs, the bull with his horns – why,

  if not impelled by instinct? Trust a waster like Hand

  with his elderly mother; the affectionate lad won’t lay a finger on her.

  Surprising? But then a wolf doesn’t kick or an ox bite.

  A cocktail of honey and hemlock will finish the old girl off.

  In short, whether a serene old age awaits me or whether

  death is already hovering near on sable wing,

  in Rome or if fortune so ordains in exile – whatever

  60 the complexion of my life, I’ll continue to write.

  ‘My lad, I’m afraid

  you may not be long for this world. One of your powerful friends

  may freeze you stiff.’

  But why? When Lucilius first had the courage

  to write this kind of poetry and remove the glossy skin

  in which people were parading before the world and concealing

  their ugliness, was Laelius offended by his wit or the man who rightly

  took on the name of the African city which he overthrew?

  Or did they feel any pain when Metellus was wounded and Lupus

  was smothered in a shower of abusive verse? And yet Lucilius

  indicted the foremost citizens and the whole populace, tribe

  70 by tribe, showing indulgence only to Worth and her friends.

  Why, when the worthy Scipio and the wise and gentle Laelius

  left the stage of public life for the privacy of home,

  they would let their hair down and join the poet in a bit of horseplay,

  as they waited for the greens to cook. Whatever I am, and however

  inferior to Lucilius in rank and talent, Envy will have

  to admit, like it or not, that I’ve moved in important circles.

  She may think I’m fragile, but she’ll find me a tough nut

  to crack. But perhaps, my learned Trebatius, you hold a different opinion?

  ‘No, I find that argument entirely solid.

  80 I must warn you, notwithstanding, to beware of trouble arising

  from ignorance of the majesty of the law: if a party compose

  foul verses to another’s hurt, a hearing and trial

  ensue.’

  Foul verses, yes; but what if a party compose

  fine verses which win a favourable verdict from Caesar?

  Or snarl at a public menace when he himself is blameless?

  ‘The charge will be dissolved in laughter, and you’ll go free.’

  SATIRE 2

  This sermon on the virtues of simple living is put into the mouth of Ofellus, a peasant whom Horace knew in his boyhood days. ‘Pleasure in eating depends more on one’s appetite than on the price of the food. So-called epicures often admire a bird or a fish for quite irrelevant reasons. Enjoyment is diminished by excess; it can also be prevented by meanness. Unlike the wise man the glutton ruins his health, his reputation, and his fortune.’ The closing section describes how Ofellus lived according to his philosophy.

  My friends, I want you to hear the virtues of plain living.

  (This talk isn’t mine but the teaching of the farmer Ofellus,

  an unprofessional philosopher of sturdy common sense.)

  Let’s consider it, not surrounded by shining tables

  and plate, when the eye is dazzled by senseless glitter and the mind

  swings in favour of the sham rejecting better things,

  but right here, before we have breakfast.

  ‘What’s the point?’

  I’ll try to explain. No judge that has been corrupted

  can properly weigh the truth. When you’re tired from hunting hare

  10 or breaking a horse – or if Roman army sports are too tough

  for someone with Greek habits, perhaps a fast game of ball

  appeals to you (the harsh exertion is sweetened and disguised by the fun)

  or throwing a discus: if so, scatter the air with a discus –

  when exertion has knocked the choosiness out of you, and you’re hungry and thirsty,

  turn up your nose at plain food: refuse to drink mead

  unless the wine is Falernian and the honey from Hymettus! The butler

  is out, the fish are protected by a dark and wintry sea;

  well, bread and salt will do to appease your growling stomach.

  Why do you think that’s so? The highest pleasure lies

  20 not in the rich savoury smell but in you. So get

  your sauce by sweat. The man who is pale and bloated from gluttony

  will never enjoy his oysters and wrasse and imported grouse.

  And yet you’ve a deep-rooted inclination, when a peacock is served,

  to caress your palate with it rather than a chicken. Your judgement

  is impaired by what doesn’t count: the bird is hard to come by,

  it costs a packet, and its spreading tail is a colourful sight –

  as if that mattered a damn! Do you actually eat those feathers

  which you find so gorgeous? Does the thing look equally splendid when cooked?

  In the meat there’s nothing to choose between them. And yet you go

  30 for the peacock, deluded by the difference in looks! Well, let it pass.

  By what process can you tell whether that gaping bass

  was caught in the Tiber or the sea, in the current between the bridges

  or near the mouth of the Tuscan river? Like a fool, you admire

  a three-pound mullet which you have to cut into separate helpings.

  I know, it’s the appearance that attracts you; but then why dislike

  long bass? Because, no doubt, in the course of nature

  bass reach a substantial size whereas mullet are small.

  A hungry stomach rarely despises common food.

  ‘I’d love to see something huge stretched out on a huge dish!’

  40 So says a gullet which for sheer greed would do credit to a Harpy.

  Ye warm south winds, come and ‘cook’ their viands! And yet the boar

  and turbot, however fresh, are already rotten, for the queasy

  stomach is upset by too much food; gorged to repletion

  it prefers radishes and sharp pickles.

  Yet poverty hasn’t

  entirely vanished from our barons’ menus; cheap eggs

  and black olives still hold their place. It’s not so long

  since the auctioneer Gallonius caused a scandal by serving

  a sturgeon. Why? Did the sea breed fewer turbots then?

  The turbot was safe and the stork safe in its nest before

  50 the Praetor taught you his lesson. So now, if someone proclaimed

  in an edict that roast seagull was nice, the youth of Rome

  would accept it – always amenable to any perverse suggestion.

  Ofellus maintains that a simple diet will be quite distinct

  from a stingy one; for there’s no point in avoiding extravagance

  if you then swerve off to the opposite vice. Avidienus,

  who is called ‘the Dog’ (a name which has stuck for excellent reasons),

  eats olives which are five years old and cornels from the woods.

  He’s too mean to open his wine until it’s gone sour.

  The smell of his oil is unbearable, and even when holding a wedding

  60 or a birthday or some other celebration, dressed up in a clean toga,

  he lets the oil drop onto the cabbage from a two-pound horn

  which he holds himself, though he’s lavish enough with his nasty old vinegar.

  So what standard should the wise man adopt, and which of these

  will he imitate? Here’s the wolf, as they say, and here’s the dog.

  He’ll be smart enough not to be branded as mean, and in his style

  of living he will not come to grief in either way. He will not

  be brutal to his servants when giving them orders, lik
e old Albucius,

  nor, like Naevius, be so informal as to offer his guests

  greasy water (that, too, is a serious blunder).

  70 Now I come to the great benefits which accrue from simple

  living. First, you have decent health. Think of the harm that

  a conglomeration of stuff does to a man. Remember

  the plain food that once agreed with you so well. But as soon

  as you mix boiled with roast, and oysters with thrushes, the sweet

  juices will turn to acid, and sticky phlegm will raise

  a revolt in the interior. Notice how green they all look

  as they come away from the ‘problem meal’! Worse still, the body,

  heavy from yesterday’s guzzling, drags down the soul

  and nails to the earth a particle of the divine spirit.

  80 The other man, after a light supper, falls asleep

  as his head hits the pillow, and gets up fresh for the work of the day.

  And yet from time to time he can switch to a better diet

  when, in the course of the year, some holiday comes around,

  or when he is undernourished and in need of a treat, or when

  with the advancing years his ageing body asks for some extra

  comfort. But what have you to fall back on when you’re forced to bear

  the strains of illness and of old age with its shuffling steps?

  You’ve grabbed your comforts already, while you’re still young and healthy!

  Our ancestors used to say that boar should be eaten high,

  90 not because they had no noses; they meant, I assume,

  that it should be kept for a guest who was late – though it might go off –

  rather than gobbled up fresh by the head of the house. If only

  I could have lived with that race of heroes, when the world was young!

  Do you like to be well thought of? (No songs are sweeter to the ear

  than songs of praise.) But the bigger the turbot and dish the bigger

  the scandal, not to mention the waste of money. Also your uncle

  and the neighbours will be furious; you’ll lose your self-respect and resolve

  on suicide – except you’ll be so broke that you won’t have a penny

  for a rope.

  ‘You can talk like that to Trausius,’ he says. ‘For he

  100 deserves it. But I have a large income and a bigger fortune

  than three kings put together.’

  Well then, can’t you think of a better way

  to get rid of your surplus? Why should any decent man