# The Satires, Epistles & Art of Poetry of Horace/Ep1-17

XVII. To Scæva.
Quamvis, Scæva.
HOUGH instinct tells you, Scæva, how to act, And makes you live among the great with tact, Yet hear a fellow-student; 'tis as though The blind should point you out the way to go, But still give heed, and see if I produce
Aught that hereafter you may find of use. If rest is what you like, and sleep till eight, If dust and rumbling wheels are what you hate, If tavern-life disgusts you, then repair To Ferentinum, and turn hermit there; For wealth has no monopoly of bliss, And life unnoticed is not lived amiss: But if you'd help your friends, and like a treat, Then drop dry bread, and take to juicy meat. "If Aristippus could but dine off greens, He'd cease to cultivate his kings and queens." "If that rude snarler knew but queens and kings, He'd find his greens unpalatable things." Thus far the rival sages. Tell me true, Whose words you think the wiser of the two, Or hear (to listen is a junior's place) Why Aristippus has the better case; For he, the story goes, with this remark Once stopped the Cynic's aggravating bark: "Buffoon I may be, but I ply my trade For solid value; you ply yours unpaid. I pay my daily duty to the great, That I may ride a horse and dine in state; You, though you talk of independence, yet, Each time you beg for scraps, contract a debt." All lives sat well on Aristippus; though He liked the high, he yet could grace the low; But the dogged sage whose blanket folds in two Would be less apt in changing old for new. Take from the one his robe of costly red,
He'll not refuse to dress, or keep his bed; Clothed as you please, he'll walk the crowded street, And, though not fine, will manage to look neat. Put purple on the other, not the touch Of toad or asp would startle him so much; Give back his blanket, or he'll die of chill: Yes, give it back; he's too absurd to kill. To win great fights, to lead before men's eyes A captive foe, is half way to the skies: Just so, to gain by honourable ways A great man's favour is no vulgar praise: You know the proverb, "Corinth town is fair, But 'tis not every man that can get there." One man sits still, not hoping to succeed; One makes the journey; he's a man indeed! 'Tis that we look for; not to shift a weight Which little frames and little souls think great, But stoop and bear it. Virtue's a mere name, Or 'tis high venture that achieves high aim. Those who have tact their poverty to mask Before their chief get more than those who ask; It makes, you see, a difference, if you take As modest people do, or snatch your cake; Yet that's the point from which our question starts, By what way best to get at patrons' hearts. "My mother's poor, my sister's dower is due, My farm won't sell or yield us corn enow," What is all this but just the beggar's cry, "I'm starving; give me food for charity"? "Ah!" whines another in a minor key,
"The loaf's in cut; pray spare a slice for me." But if in peace the raven would have fed, He'd have had less of clawing, more of bread. A poor companion whom his friend takes down To fair Surrentum or Brundisium's town, If he makes much of cold, bad roads, and rain, Or moans o'er cash-box forced and money ta'en, Reminds us of a girl, some artful thing, Who cries for a lost bracelet or a ring, With this result, that when she comes to grieve For real misfortunes, no one will believe. So, hoaxed by one impostor, in the street A man won't set a cripple on his feet, Though he invoke Osiris, and appeal With streaming tears to hearts that will not feel, "Lift up a poor lame man! I tell no lie;" "Treat foreigners to that," the neighbours cry.