Satires 2.1 (Fairclough)

HORACE. There are some critics who think that I am too savage in my satire and strain the work beyond lawful bounds. The other half of them hold that all I have composed is “nerveless,” and that verses as good as mine could be turned out a thousand a day. Give me advice, Trebatius. What am I to do?

TREBATIUS. Take a rest.

HOR. Not write verses at all, you mean?

TRE. Yes.

HOR. Confound me, if that would not be best! But I cannot sleep.

TRE. Let those who need sound sleep oil themselves and swim across the Tiber thrice; then, as night comes on, let them steep themselves in wine. Or if such a passion for writing carries you away, bravely tell of the feats of Caesar, the unvanquished. Many a reward for your pains will you gain.

HOR. Would that I could, good father, but my strength fails me. Not everyone can paint ranks bristling with lances, or Gauls falling with spear-heads shattered, or wounded Parthian slipping from his horse.

TRE. But you might write of himself, at once just and valiant, as wise Lucilius did of Scipio.

HOR. I will not fail myself, when the occasion itself prompts. Only at an auspicious moment will the words of a Flaccus find with Caesar entrance to an attentive ear. Stroke the steed clumsily and back he kicks, at every point on his guard.

TRE. How much wiser this than with bitter verse to wound “Pantolabus, the parasite, and spendthrift Nomentanus,” whereupon everybody is afraid for himself, though untouched, and hates you.

HOR. What am I to do? Milonius starts a-dancing once the heat has mounted to his wine-smitten brain and the lamps twinkle double. Castor finds joy in horses; his brother, born from the same egg, in boxing. For every thousand living souls, there are as many thousand tastes. My own delight is to shut up words in feet, as did Lucilius, a better judge than either of us. He in olden days would trust his secrets to his books, as if to faithful friends, never turning elsewhere for recourse, whether things went well with him or ill. So it comes that the old poet’s whole life is open to view, as if painted on a votive tablet.

He it is I follow—I, a Lucanian or Apulian, I know not which, for the settlers in Venusia plough close to the borders of both lands. Thither they were sent, as the old story goes, when the Samnites were driven out, and to this end, that no foe might ever assail the Romans through an open frontier, whether the Apulian race or whether Lucania lawlessly threatened any war. But this, both my dagger and pen, shall never of my free will assail any man alive but shall protect me, like a sword laid up in its sheath. Why should I try to draw it, while I am safe from robbers’ assaults? O Jupiter, Sire and King, let perish with rust the discarded weapon, and let no man injure me, a lover of peace! But if one stir me up (“Better not touch me!” I shout), he shall smart for it and have his name sung up and down the town.

Cervius, when angry, threatens his foes with laws and the judge’s urn; Canidia with the poison of Albucius; Turius with a big fine, if you go to court when he is judge. How everyone, using the weapon in which he is strong, tries to frighten those whom he fears, and how this is at Dame Nature’s own command, you must infer—as I do—thus: the wolf attacks with fangs, the bull with horns—how was each taught, if not by instinct? Suppose you entrust to the spendthrift Scaeva a long-lived mother: his filial hand will commit no crime. How marvellous! no more so than that a wolf assails none with his heels, nor an ox with his teeth; but deadly hemlock in drugged honey will carry the old crone off. To be brief—whether peaceful age awaits me, or Death hovers round with sable wings, rich or poor, in Rome, or, if chance so bid, in exile, whatever the colour of my life, write I must.

TRE. My lad, I fear your life will be brief. One of your great friends will strike you with a killing frost.

HOR. What! when Lucilius first dared to compose poems after this kind, and to strip off the skin with which each strutted all bedecked before the eyes of men, though foul within, was Laelius offended at his wit, or he who took his well-earned name from conquered Carthage? Or were they hurt because Metellus was smitten, and Lupus buried under a shower of lampooning verses? Yet he laid hold upon the leaders of the people, and upon the people in their tribes, kindly in fact only to Virtue and her friends. Nay, when virtuous Scipio and the wise and gentle Laelius withdrew into privacy from the throng and theatre of life, they would turn to folly, and flinging off restraint would indulge with him in sport while their dish of herbs was on the boil. Such as I am, however far beneath Lucilius in rank and native gifts, yet Envy, in spite of herself, will ever admit that I have lived with the great, and, while trying to strike her tooth on something soft, will dash upon what is solid. But maybe you, learned Trebatius, disagree.

TRE. Indeed, I can take no exception to this. But for all that, let me warn you to beware, lest haply ignorance of our sacred laws bring you into trouble. If a man write ill verses against another, there is a right of action and redress by law.

HOR. To be sure, in case of ill verses. But what if a man compose good verses, and Caesar’s judgement approve? If he has barked at someone who deserves abuse, himself all blameless?

TRE. The case will fall through with a laugh. You will get off scot-free.