Epistles 1.10 (Fairclough)

To Fuscus, lover of the city, I, a lover of the country, send greetings. In this one point, to be sure, we differ much, but being in all else much like twins with the hearts of brothers—if one says “no,” the other says “no” too—we nod a common assent like a couple of old familiar doves.

You keep the nest; I praise the lovely country’s brooks, its grove and moss-grown rocks. In short: I live and reign, as soon as I have left behind what you townsmen with shouts of applause extol to the skies. Like the priest’s runaway slave, I loathe sweet wafers; ’tis bread I want, and now prefer to honeyed cakes.

If “to live agreeably to Nature” is our duty, and first we must choose a site for building our house, do you know any place to be preferred to the blissful country? Is there any where winters are milder, where a more grateful breeze tempers the Dog-star’s fury and the Lion’s onset, when once in frenzy he has caught the sun’s piercing shafts? Is there any where envious Care less distracts our slumber? Is the grass poorer in fragrance or beauty than Libyan mosaics? Is the water purer which in city-streets struggles to burst its leaden pipes than that which dances and purls adown the sloping brook? Why, amid your varied columns you are nursing trees, and you praise the mansion which looks out on distant fields. You may drive out Nature with a pitchfork, yet she will ever hurry back, and, ere you know it, will burst through your foolish contempt in triumph.

The man who has not the skill to match with Sidonian purple the fleeces that drink up Aquinum’s dye, will not suffer surer loss or one closer to his heart than he who shall fail to distinguish false from true. One whom Fortune’s smiles have delighted overmuch, will reel under the shock of change. If you set your heart on aught, you will be loth to lay it down. Flee grandeur: though humble be your home, yet in life’s race you may outstrip kings and the friends of kings.

You will live wisely, Aristius, if cheerful in your lot, and you will not let me off unrebuked, when I seem to be gathering more than enough and never to rest. Money stored up is for each his lord or his slave, but ought to follow, not lead, the twisted rope.

These lines I am dictating to you behind Vacuna’s crumbling shrine, happy on all counts save that you are not with me.