Does it suffice, the purple round thee thrown,
To hail the Roman Censor as thine own?
Vain honours all-how little are the proud,
Ev'n when their pomp imposes on the crowd!
I know thee well; and hast thou then no shame,
That thy loose life and Natta's are the same?
But he, to virtue lost, knows not its price,
Fattens in sloth, and stupifies in vice:
Sunk in the gulf, immerged in guilt he lies,
Has not the power, nor yet the will to rise.
Great Sire of Gods, let not thy thunder fall
On princes, when their crimes for vengeance call;
But let remembrance punish guilty kings,
And conscience wound with all her thousand stings;
Let Truth's fair form confess'd before them rise;
And Virtue stand reveal'd to mortal eyes,
Astonish tyrants by her placid mien,
And teach them, dying, what they might have been.
Does he feel keener pangs, acuter pains,
Whom, doom'd to death, the brazen bull contains?
Was he more cursed, who, mock'd with regal state,
Around his throne saw slaves and courtiers wait,
While from the roof, suspended by a thread,
The pointed sword hung threatening o'er his head :
Than he, who cries, while rushing on his doom,
"I go, headlong, I go, nor fear the tomb :"
-Who from his bosom dares not lift the veil,
Shudders in thought, and at himself grows pale.
Sæpe oculos, memini, tangebam parvus olivo,
Grandia si nollem morituri verba Catonis
Dicere, non sano multum laudanda magistro,
Quæ pater adductis sudans audiret amicis.
Jure: etenim id summum, quid dexter senio ferret
Scire, erat in voto: damnosa canicula quantum
Raderet, angustæ collo non fallier orcæ:
Neu quis callidior buxum torquere flagello.
Haud tibi inexpertum curvos deprendere mores,
Quæque docet sapiens braccatis inlita Medis
Porticus insomnis, quibus et detonsa juventus
Invigilat, siliquis, et grandi pasta polenta.
Et tibi quæ Samios diduxit littera ramos,
Surgentem dextro monstravit limite callem.
Stertis adhuc ? laxumque caput compage soluta
Oscitat hesternum dissutis undique malis?
Est aliquid quò tendis, et in quod dirigis arcum ?
An passim sequeris corvos, testaque, lutoque,
Securus quò pes ferat, atque ex tempore vivis?
Helleborum frustra, cum jam cutis ægra tumebit,
Trusting to none the secrets of his life,
Not ev'n confiding in his weeping wife?
Oft, when a boy, unwilling still to toil,
To shun my task, I smear'd my face with oil,
Great Cato's dying speech neglected lay,
And all my better thoughts to sport gave way;
With anxious friends my partial father came,
And sweating saw his son exposed to shame.
Alas, no pleasure then in books I knew,
But still with dextrous hand the dice I threw.
None with more art the rattling box could shake;
None reckon'd better on the envied stake;
None was more skill'd, along the level ground,
To drive the whirling top in endless round.
But you, what arts, what pleasures can entice,
To wander in the thorny paths of vice;
You, who so lately from the porch have brought
The godlike precepts, which great Zeno taught ;
You, who in schools of rigid virtue bred,
On simple fare with frugal sages fed,
Where watchful youth their silent vigils keep,
And midnight studies still encroach on sleep;
You, who have listen'd to instruction's voice,
And with the Samian sage have made your choice;
Are you content to lose life's early day,
Or pass existence in a dream away?
Ah, thoughtless youth, ere yet the fell disease
Blanch your pale cheek, and on its victim seize,
Poscentes videas: venienti occurrite morbo.
Et quid opus Cratero magnos promittere montes?
Discite ô miseri, et causas cognoscite rerum,
Quid sumus, et quidnam victuri gignimur, ordo
Quis datus, aut metæ quàm mollis flexus, et unde:
Quis modus argento, quid fas optare, quid asper
Utile nummus habet: patriæ, carisque propinquis
Quantum elargiri deceat: quem te Deus esse
Jussit, et humana qua parte locatus es in re.
Disce: nec invideas, quod multa fidelia putet
In locuplete penu, defensis pinguibus Umbris,
Et piper, et pernæ, Marsi monumenta clientis:
Mænaque quod prima nondum defecerit orca
Heic aliquis de gente hircosa centurionum
Dicat, Quod sapio, satis est mihi : non ego curo
Esse quod Arcesilas, ærumnosique Solones,
Obstipo capite, et figentes lumine terram,
Murmura cum secum, et rabiosa silentia rodunt,
Apply the remedy, nor idly wait
Till hope be fled, and medicine come too late!
Contemplate well this theatre of man;
Observe the drama, and its moral plan;
Study of things the causes and the ends;
Whence is our being, and to what it tends;
Of fortune's gifts appreciate the worth;
And mark how good and evil mix on earth :
Observe what stands as relative to you,
What to your country, parents, friends, is due.
Consider God as boundless matter's soul,
Yourself a part of the stupendous whole ;
Think that existence has an endless reign,
Yourself a link in the eternal chain.
Weigh these things well, and envy not the stores
Which clients bring from Umbria's fruitful shores;
Forego, without regret, the noisy bar,
Its din, its wrangling, its unceasing war;
Forsake that place where justice has a price,
And may be bought for fish, or ham, or spice.
But here, perhaps, some blustering son of Mars,
Will treat my doctrine as an idle farce.—
"What," doth he cry, " do I not know enough,
"That I must listen to this learned stuff?
"I do not wish to be esteem'd a sage,
"Nor to be held the Solon of my age.
"I hate the dull philosopher who sits,
"Pores o'er his book, and talks and thinks by fits;
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