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De majore domo modicè sitiente lagena
Lenia loturo sibi Surrentina rogavit.
Heus bone, tu palles. Nihil est. Videas tamen istud,
Quicquid id est: surgit tacitè tibi lutea pellis.
At tu deterius palles : ne sis mihi tutor:
Jampridem hunc sepeli: tu restas. Perge, tacebo.
Turgidus hic epulis, atque albo ventre, lavatur,
Gutture sulphureas lente exhalante mephites.
Sed trenor inter vina subit, calidumque triental
Excutit è manibus : dentes crepuere retecti.
Uncta cadunt laxis tunc pulmentaria labris.
Hinc tuba, candelæ : tandemque beatulus alto
Compositus lecto, crassisque lutatus amomis,
In portam rigidos calces extendit: at illum
Hesterni capite induto subiere Quirites.
Tange miser venas, et pone in pectore dextram,
Nil calet hic, summosque pedes attinge, manusque,
Non frigent, visa est forte pecunia, sive
Candida vicini subrisit molle puella,
Cor tibi rite salit? positum est algente catino

Once more desirous for the world to live,
And taste of all the joys which it can give;
He quits his bed, prepares to bathe, and dine,
And quaff the juice of the Surrentin vine.
“ How wan, how sallow!" the physician cries;
“ Ah, but 'tis nothing now," the sick replies :
“ Nothing, my friend; the dire prognosis shows,
“ Disease productive of a thousand woes.
“ Nay, pr’ythee, peace—I do not ask thine aid;
“ My guardian in his grave long since was laid.”
The doctor goes—the sick man's body swells,
And water gathers in a thousand cells :
His breath, sulphureous, taints the vernal gale,
And airs mephitic from his lungs exhale;
At length unlook'd for death the wretch appals,
And from his hand the lifted goblet falls.
The trumpets sound, funereal torches glow,
Announcing far the mockery of woe.
On the state bed, the stiffen'd corse is laid,
And all the honours due to death are paid;
O'er the sad relics new made Romans mourn,
And place the ashes in the silent urn.

Thy well told tale does not to me apply, “ No fever rages, and no pulse beats high. Lay thine hand here; my heart no throbbing knows, “ And health for me uninterrupted flows.” Methinks thou mayst a few exceptions make. Did loss of gold ne'er cause thine heart to ake? Does not a fever rage whene'er, by chance, A fond maid's soul is pictured in her glance ?

E

Durum olus, et populi cribro decussa farina.
Tentemus fauces: tenero latet ulcus in ore
Putre, quod haud deceat plebeia radere beta.
Alges, cum excussit membris timor albus aristas :
Nunc face supposita fervescit sanguis, et ira
Scintillant oculi: dicisque, facisque, quod ipse
Non sani esse hominis, non sanus juret Orestes.

1

Say, dost thou sit contented at the board,
Which just a cake and cabbage can afford ?
Come, try thy mouth -hah-there's an ulcer there,
Too tender to be touch'd by such coarse fare.
Thou hast an ague, when heart-chilling Fear
Bristles thine hair, and whispers danger near :
And Madness, horrid fiend, is nigh at hand,
When raging Anger hurls his flaming brand;
And thou dost rave in such a frantic strain,
As mad Orestes would pronounce insane?

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