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SATIRE VI.

ADDRESSED TO CÆSIUS BASSUS.

V. I-16.

Hatx the stern aspect of the winter sky
Compell’d thee, Bassus, yet from Rome to fly;
From crowded streets and temples to retire,
In Sabine solitudes to string the lyre?
Dost thou, O wondrous artist, now rehearse,
In all the majesty of Latin verse,
How from the first great Cause existence sprung,
While brooding night o'er inert matter hung?
Or is gay youth delighted by thy page,
Or does thy sprightly satire rally age?
For me, I seek, while distant tempests roar,
A warm retirement on Liguria's shore,
Where circling rocks an ample valley form,
And Luna's port lies shelter'd from the storm.
Thy Muse, O Ennius, sung this tranquil scene,
This sea cærulean, and this sky serene.

Mæonides, Quintus pavone ex Pythagoreo.
Heic ego securus vulgi, et quid præparet Auster
Infelix pecori : securus, et angulus ille
Vicini, nostro quia pinguior: et si adeo omnes
Ditescant orti pejoribus, usque recusem
Curvus ob id minui senio, aut cænare sine uncto,
Et signum in vapida naso tetigisse lagena.
Discrepet his alius. Geminos horoscope varo
Producis genio. Solis natalibus, est qui
Tigat olus siccum muria vafer in calice empta,
Ipse sacrum inrorans patinæ piper: hic bona dente
Grandia magnanimus peragit puer: utar ego,

utar!
Nec rhombos ideo libertis ponere lautus,
Nec tenuem sollers turdarum nosse salivam.
Messe tenus propria vive: et granaria (fas est)

Thy spirit now, its earthly labours o’er,
Lives in thy verse, and transmigrates no more.
No tumults here disturb my peaceful life,
No loud declaimers bent on public strife.
Unheedful too of winter's rage I sleep,
Though Auster threaten, and Aquarius weep.
I view my neighbour's fields, nor yet repine
That his estate will soon be double mine :
Though in his wealth I see the upstart roll,
Yet purest wine still sparkles in my bowl;
Though he grow rich, yet I content can sup;
Nor hate nor envy mingles in my cup.
To different men were different lots assign'd,
And fate still separates, whom planets join'd;
In life opposed, though at their natal hour
The Twins ascendant shed their mutual power.
Here one, on festal day, prepares to dine,
Dips the dried olive in the salted brine;
Picks

up

the crumb, which must not go to waste, And sprinkles pepper on the mouldy paste. Another here, no fears of want appal, Spendthrift of treasures, prodigal of all. For me, I spend the sum I can afford. And modest plenty crowns my humble board. As corn abounds, so measure out your grain, Nor let vain fears your liberal hand restrain. If now but just enough the granary yields, The future harvest ripens on the fields.

Emole, quid metuas? occa: et seges altera in herba est. Ast vocat officium: trabe

rupta,

Bruttia saxa
Prendit amicus inops: remque omnem, surdaque vota
Condidit Ionio: jacet ipse in littore, et una
Ingentes de puppe Dei: jamque

: jamque obvia mergis
Costa ratis laceræ: nunc et de cespite vivo
Frange aliquid : largire inopi, ne pictus oberret
Cærulea in tabula. Sed cænam funeris heres
Negliget, iratus' quòd rem curtaveris : urnæ
Ossa inodora dabit: seu spirent cinnama surdum,
Seu ceraso peccent casiã nescire paratus.
Tune bona incolumis minuas ? et Bestius urget
Doctores Graios. Ita fit, postquam sapere

urbi Cum pipere, et palmis venit nostrum hoc maris expers, Fænisecæ crasso vitiarunt unguine pultes.

With friends, you cry, your wealth you inust divide,
For them, when fortune frowns, you must provide.
Lo, where one stands, wreck'd on the Bruttian coast,
His prayers unheeded, and his treasures lost.
Far floating on the surge, you may discern
The broken rudder and the painted stern ;
His guardian gods are toss'd by angry waves,
His brethren buried in their watery graves.
Unlock your stores, put forth your saving hand,
Nor let your kinsman wander on the strand :
To passing strangers tell his tale of woe,
And the blue picture of his shipwreck show.
Thus urged, you cry that your unfeeling heir
Will blame the deed, and curse your generous care;
No honours due shall at your grave be paid,
No prayers shall bless, no rites shall soothe your shade:
No crowd of mourners shall attend your tomb,
No torches burn, no cassia round it bloom.
How long shall we, indignant Bestius cries,
Adopt the customs conquer'd Greece supplies?
These funeral honours render'd at the tomb,
Are strange to Italy, are new to Rome.
Time was, he adds, when foreign climes unknown,
Our speech was simple, and our style our own;
Our frugal fare, the produce of the soil,
Required no dates, no pepper, and no oil.
Now through all ranks luxurious pleasures spread,
And Vice unblushing stands in Virtue's stead:

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