Satire IV

“What? Are you busying yourself with affairs of state?” Imagine these to be the words of the bearded sage who was carried off by that deadly draught of hemlock. Tell me, you ward of the mighty Pericles, what are your qualifications? Sagacity, no doubt, and a know ledge of affairs, have come to you quickly, before your beard; you know well what to say, and what to leave unsaid. So when the bile of the multitude has been stirred to heat, the spirit moves you to impose silence on the fevered mob by a lordly waving of the hand. What will you say after that? “Fellow citizens! This proposal is unjust; that other one is bad; this third plan is the best!” For, of course, you know exactly how to weigh justice in the twin scales of the wavering balance; you can detect the straight line when it comes in between curves, even when the straddling leg of the foot-rule would lead you wrong; and you know how to affix to guilt the black mark of death. But seeing that your sleek outside skin will avail you not, why not stop waving that tail of yours to the fawning multitude before your time, when it would be better for you to be swallowing whole islands-full of hellebore undiluted?

What is your notion of the highest good? Is it to live off dainty dishes every day, and to have your delicate cuticle comforted by continual basking in the sun? Wait a bit, and this old woman here will give no other answer. Go, then, and blow your trumpet: “I am Dinomache’s son; I am the pink of beauty!” Good! only remember that you are no wiser than this tattered old Baucis when she puffs off her greengroceries to some slipshod slave!

Not a soul is there — no, not one — who seeks to get down into his own self; all watch the wallet on the back that walks before! Ask any one whether he knows the property of Ventidius; “Whom do you mean?” he will ask. “O that rich man at Cures who owns more land than a kite can fly over.” “What? Do you mean that fellow, hateful alike to the gods and his own Genius, who, on the day when he hangs up his yoke at the Cross Roads, hesitates to wipe off the dirt that has gathered round his cannikin of wine, and groans out, ‘May it all be for the best!’ and while the slave-lads are revelling over their hasty-pudding, munches an onion, skin and all, with a pinch of salt to it, and sucks down the dregs of some expiring vinegar?” But, on the other hand, should you be living in lazy luxury, basking in the sunshine, there is always some one you never knew to jog you with his elbow, and, spitting savagely at you, cry, “Are these your vile practices?”...

We keep smiting by turns and by turns presenting our own legs to the arrow. That is the rule of life; that is the lesson of experience. You have a secret wound beneath the groin; but a broad golden belt keeps it out of view. Well, as you please; trick your body and befool it if you can!

“What? If all my neighbours call me a fine fellow, am I not to believe them?” If, in your greed, you change colour at the sight of gold; if you yield to every foul desire; if by some crafty trick you flog the money-market with whipcord, in vain will you lend your thirsty ears to the flattery of the mob. Cast off everything that is not yourself; let the mob take back what they have given you; live in your own house, and recognise how poorly it is furnished.