Book III, Epigram 58 (Ker)

The Baian villa, Bassus, ot our friend Faustinas keeps unfruitful no spaces of wide field laid out in idle myrtle-beds, and with widowed planes and clipped clumps of box, but rejoices in a farm, honest and artless. Here in every corner corn is tightly packed, and many a crock is fragrant of ancient autumns. Here, when November is past, and winter is now at hand, the unkempt primer brings home' late grapes. Fiercely in the deep valley roar bulls, and the steer with brow unhorned itches for the fray. All the crowd of the untidy poultry-yard wanders here and there, the shrill-cackling goose, and the spangled peacocks, and the bird that owes its name to its flaming plumes, and the painted partridge, and speckled guinea-fowls, and the impious Colchians' pheasant. Proud cocks tread their Rhodian dames, and cotes are loud with the pigeons' croon; on this side moans the ringdove, on that the glossy turtle. Greedily pigs follow the apron of the bailiff's wife, and the tender lamb waits for its dam's full udder. Infant home-born slaves ring the clear-burning hearth, and thickly piled billets gleam before the household gods on holidays. The wine seller does not idly sicken with pale-faced ease, nor the anointed wrestling-master make waste of oil, but he stretches a crafty net for greedy fieldfares, or with tremulous line draws up the captured fish, or brings home the doe entangled in his nets. The kindly garden keeps the town slaves cheerfully busy, and, without the overseer's order, even the wanton long-curled pages gladly obey the bailiff; even the delicate eunuch delights in work. Nor does the country visitor come empty handed: that one brings pale honey in its comb, and a pyramid of cheese from Sassina's woodland; that one offers sleepy dormice; this one the bleating offspring of a shaggy mother; another capons debarred from love. And the strapping daughters of honest farmers offer in a wicker basket their mother's gifts. When work is done a cheerful neighbour is asked to dine; no niggard table reserves a feast for the morrow; all take the meal, and the full-fed attendant need not envy the well-drunken guest. But you in the suburbs possess what is elegant starvation, and from your high tower survey laurels alone; you are not nervous, for your Priapus fears no thief; and your vine-dresser you feed on corn brought from town, and indolently cart to your frescoed villa cabbages, eggs, fowls, apples, cheese, must. Ought this to be called a farm, or a town-house away from town?