Satires/Book II/2

1. On Satire Again

Satires ~ II, 2. The Simple Life written by Horace

3. On Human Folly

Translation by A. S. Kline.

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Learn how great the virtue is, my friends, of plain living (This isn’t my advice, but Ofellus’ peasant teaching, An unorthodox philosopher, and an ‘idiot’ savant) But not amongst the gleaming dishes on the table, When you’re dazzled by the sight of senseless show, And the mind tuned to sham things shuns what’s better, Discuss it with me here before we eat. ‘But, why now?’ I’ll tell you if I can. Every judge who’s bribed weighs The evidence badly. But when you’ve hunted hares, Tired by a spirited horse, or when Roman army sports Fatigue one used to all things Greek, or fast ball-games Appeal, where hard toil’s sweetened by the competition, Or the discus (hurl that discus through the yielding air!) – When exercise has made you less fastidious, hungry, Thirsty, then spurn plain food, refuse to drink the mead Unless it’s honey from Hymettus and red Falernian! The butler’s off, a dark and wintry sea hides its fish, Well, bread and salt will soothe a rumbling belly. Why so? The greatest pleasure’s not in costly flavours, it resides In you yourself. Obtain your sauce by sweating: pallid Diners, living bloated from excess, can’t take delight In their ocean wrasse, or oysters, or imported grouse. Yet I could hardly change your wish to kiss your palate With the peacock when it’s served, and not the pullet, You’re seduced by vain show, a rare bird costs gold, With its ornate tail spectacularly spread: as if it Mattered. Do you ever eat those feathers you admire? Does it have the same beauty when it’s cooked? The meat Doesn’t differ between the two, yet to think that you Prefer this to that, deceived by the appearance! Well: How can you tell then if the pike that’s gasping here Was caught in the Tiber or the sea, in the current near The bridges, or the Tuscan river’s mouth? Madman, You praise a three pound mullet you’ve to eat in portions. It’s the size that attracts you I see, well then why not A large pike? Because no doubt the pike’s naturally Larger, while the mullet’s normally much smaller. It’s a belly seldom hungry that scorns common fare. ‘I’d love to see something huge served in a huge dish,’ Cries a throat that would be worthy of the Harpies . Come you Southerlies and spoil their fare! And yet However fresh the boar and turbot they already stink, Since too much richness upsets a weakened stomach, Gorged, it much prefers radishes and bitter leaves. Yet poor man’s food’s not wholly absent from the feasts Of kings: cheap eggs, black olives hold their place. It’s not So long since the auctioneer Gallonius’ serving sturgeon, Caused a scandal. And the sea hid as much turbot, then. Yet turbot were still safe, and storks safe in their nests, Till a creative ‘praetor’ led you astray! So that now, If someone proclaimed roast seagulls were tasty, The youth of Rome, so easily seduced, would agree. Ofellus judges that a mean life is different From a plain one: so it’s foolish for you to avoid One fault and steer towards another. Avidienus To whom the nickname of ‘the Dog’ rightly clings, Eats olives five-years old and cornels from the woods, And won’t decant his wine till it’s soured, you’d detest The smell of his olive oil, yet even on birthdays Or weddings, or other occasions, in a clean toga, He drips it on the salad from a two-pint horn, With his own hands, though he’s free with his old vinegar. What mode should the wise man adopt, which of these two Should he copy? One side the wolf, as they say, the other The dog. Well he’ll be worldly enough not to offend us By meanness, and cultured enough not to be wretched In either way. He’ll neither be cruel to his slaves Like old Albucius, when apportioning their duties, Nor like Naevius thoughtless in offering his guests Greasy water: that’s also a serious mistake. Now learn the benefits that accompany plain living. First good health. Think how simple fare once suited you If you want to discover how ill-assorted courses Harm a man. As soon as you mix boiled and roast, Or oysters and thrushes, the sweet juice will turn acid, The thick bile will cause stomach-ache. See how pale The diners all seem as they leave the doubtful feast! Bloated with yesterday’s excess the body weighs down The soul, and nails a fragment of divine spirit to earth. But the plain-living man who eats then snatches a nap Quick as a flash, rises refreshed for his appointed tasks. He can still turn to a richer diet, when an annual holiday Comes round, or he wants to fill out his slender frame, Or when advancing age demands greater indulgence: But if severe illness strikes you, or feeble senility, How can you increase those indulgences you take So much for granted while you’re young and healthy? Our ancestors praised boar eaten when high: not That they lacked a sense of smell, but thinking, perhaps, That though rank it was better kept for a guest arriving Late, than eaten greedily by the host when still fresh. If only time past had reared me among such heroes! You value reputation, that fills human ears more Sweetly than song: but huge dishes of giant turbot Bring huge disgrace and loss: add to that the angry Uncle, the neighbours, your self-disgust, your vain Longing for death, lacking even the means to buy A rope. ‘Oh, it’s fine to criticise Trausius like that,’ You say, ‘but my income’s vast and I’ve more wealth Than a clutch of kings.’ Well then, isn’t there something Better you can spend the surplus on? Why, when you’re Rich, are there any deserving men in need? Why are The ancient temples of the gods in ruins? Why, man Without shame, don’t you offer your dear country a tithe From that vast heap? You alone, is it, trouble won’t touch! O how your enemies will laugh some day! In times Of uncertainty who’s more confident? The man Who’s accustomed a fastidious mind and body To excess, or the man content with little, wary Of what’s to come, who wisely in peace prepared for war? You’ll credit it more if I say that when I was a lad Ofellus, as I know well, spent no more widely, then, When his wealth was intact, as now it’s reduced. You can see him there with his sons and herd, a solid Tenant on his lost farm. ‘I was never one,’ he says, ‘To eat rashly on working days, no more than greens, A shank of smoked ham, and if friends came to visit I’d not seen for ages, or if I welcomed a neighbour On a wet day when I couldn’t work, we dined well, Not on fish from town, but a kid or a pullet: then Raisins and nuts and split figs graced our dessert. After it drinking matches with a forfeit for losing, And with a prayer to Ceres: ‘May she raise the stalks high’, She smoothed care from our furrowed brows with wine. Let Fortune’s winds blow, let her stir a fresh tumult: How can she lessen this? How much worse off have I Or you been, my lads, since this new landlord arrived? Nature makes no-one, not he nor I, the true owner Of the land: he replaced us, and he’ll be replaced Through incompetence, not grasping legal subtlety, Or, failing all that, by the heir that outlives him. Today it’s Umbrenus’ farm, it was Ofellus’ lately, No one will truly own it, but it will be worked Now by me, now another. So live bravely, as men With brave hearts do, and confront the vagaries of fate.

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