HORACE'S RELATIONS WITH AUGUSTUS.--HIS LOVE OF INDEPENDENCE.
No intimate friend of Maecenas was likely to be long a stranger to
Augustus; and it is most improbable that Augustus, who kept up his love
of good literature amid all the distractions of conquest and empire,
should not have early sought the acquaintance of a man of such
conspicuous ability as Horace. But when they first became known to each
other is uncertain. In more than one of the Epodes Horace speaks of him,
but not in terms to imply personal acquaintance. Some years further on
it is different. When Trebatius (Satires, II. 1) is urging the poet,
if write he must, to renounce satire, and to sing of Caesar's triumphs,
from which he would reap gain as well as glory, Horace replies,--
"Most worthy sir, that's just the thing
I'd like especially to sing;
But at the task my spirits faint,
For 'tis not every one can paint
Battalions, with their bristling wall
Of pikes, and make you see the Gaul,
With, shivered spear, in death-throe bleed,
Or Parthian stricken from his steed."
Then why not sing, rejoins Trebatius, his justice and his fortitude,
"Like sage Lucilius, in his lays
To Scipio Africanus' praise?"
The reply is that of a man who had obviously been admitted to personal
contact with the Caesar, and, with instinctive good taste, recoiled from
doing what he knew would be unacceptable to him, unless called for by
some very special occasion:--
"When time and circumstance suggest,
I shall not fail to do my best;
But never words of mine shall touch
Great Caesar's ear, but only such
As are to the occasion due,
And spring from my conviction, too;
For stroke him with an awkward hand,
And he kicks out--you understand?"
an allusion, no doubt, to the impatience entertained by Augustus, to
which Suetonius alludes, of the indiscreet panegyrics of poetasters by
which he was persecuted. The gossips of Rome clearly believed (Satires,
II. 6) that the poet was intimate with Caesar; for he is "so close
to the gods"--that is, on such a footing with Augustus and his chief
advisers--that they assume, as a matter of course, he must have early
tidings of all the most recent political news at first hand. However
this may be, by the time the Odes were published Horace had overcome any
previous scruples, and sang in no measured terms the praises of him,
the back-stroke of whose rebuke he had professed himself so fearful of
provoking.
All Horace's prepossessions must have been against one of the leaders
before whose opposition Brutus, the ideal hero of his youthful
enthusiasm, had succumbed. Neither were the sanguinary proscriptions and
ruthless spoliations by which the triumvirate asserted its power,
and from a large share of the guilt of which Augustus could not shake
himself free, calculated to conciliate his regards. He had much to
forget and to forgive before he could look without aversion upon the
blood-stained avenger of the great Caesar. But in times like those in
which Horace's lot was cast, we do not judge of men or things as we do
when social order is unbroken, when political crime is never condoned,
and the usual standards of moral judgment are rigidly enforced. Horace
probably soon came to see, what is now very apparent, that when Brutus
and his friends struck down Caesar, they dealt a deathblow to what,
but for this event, might have proved to be a well-ordered government.
Liberty was dead long before Caesar aimed at supremacy. It was dead when
individuals like Sulla and Marius had become stronger than the laws; and
the death of Caesar was, therefore, but the prelude to fresh disasters,
and to the ultimate investiture with absolute power of whoever, among
the competitors for it, should come triumphantly out of what was sure to
be a protracted and a sanguinary struggle. In what state did Horace
find Italy after his return from Philippi? Drenched in the blood of its
citizens, desolated by pillage, harassed by daily fears of internecine
conflict at home and of invasion from abroad, its sovereignty a stake
played for by political gamblers. In such a state of things it was no
longer the question, how the old Roman constitution was to be restored,
but how the country itself was to be saved from ruin. Prestige was with
the nephew of the Caesar whose memory the Roman populace had almost
from his death worshipped as divine; and whose conspicuous ability and
address, as well as those of his friends, naturally attracted to his
side the ablest survivors of the party of Brutus. The very course of
events pointed to him as the future chief of the state. Lepidus, by the
sheer weakness and indecision of his character, soon went to the wall;
and the power of Antony was weakened by his continued absence from
Rome, and ultimately destroyed by the malign influence exerted upon
his character by the fascinations of the Egyptian Queen Cleopatra. The
disastrous failure of his Parthian expedition (B.C. 36), and the tidings
that reached Rome from time to time of the mad extravagance of his
private life, of his abandonment of the character of a Roman citizen,
and his assumption of the barbaric pomp and habits of an oriental
despot, made men look to his great rival as the future head of the
state, especially as they saw that rival devoting all his powers to the
task of reconciling divisions and restoring peace to a country exhausted
by a long series of civil broils, of giving security to life and
property at home, and making Rome once more a name of awe throughout the
world. Was it, then, otherwise than natural that Horace, in common with
many of his friends, should have been not only content to forget the
past, with its bloody and painful records, but should even have attached
himself cordially to the party of Augustus? Whatever the private aims of
the Caesar may have been, his public life showed that he had the welfare
of his country strongly at heart, and the current of events had made it
clear that he at least was alone able to end the strife of faction by
assuming the virtual supremacy of the state.
Pollio, Messalla, Varus, and others of the Brutus party, have not been
denounced as renegades because they arrived at a similar conclusion, and
lent the whole influence of their abilities and their names to the
cause of Augustus. Horace has not been so fortunate; and because he
has expressed,--what was no doubt the prevailing feeling of his
countrymen,--gratitude to Augustus for quelling civil strife, for
bringing glory to the empire, and giving peace, security, and
happiness to his country by the power of his arms and the wisdom of
his administration, the poet has been called a traitor to the nobler
principles of his youth--an obsequious flatterer of a man whom he ought
to have denounced to posterity as a tyrant. _Adroit esclave_ is the
epithet applied to him in this respect by Voltaire, who idolises him as
a moralist and poet. But it carries little weight in the mouth of
the cynic who could fawn with more than courtierly complaisance on
a Frederick or a Catherine, and weave graceful flatteries for the
Pompadour, and who "dearly loved a lord" in his practice, however he may
have sneered at aristocracy in his writings. But if we put ourselves
as far as we can into the poet's place, we shall come to a much
more lenient conclusion. He could no doubt appreciate thoroughly the
advantages of a free republic or of a purely constitutional government,
and would, of course, have preferred either of these for his country.
But while theory pointed in that direction, facts were all pulling the
opposite way. The materials for the establishment of such a state of
things did not exist in a strong middle class or an equal balance of
parties. The choice lay between the anarchy of a continued strife of
selfish factions, and the concentration of power in the hands of some
individual who should be capable of enforcing law at home and commanding
respect abroad. So at least Horace obviously thought; and surely it is
reasonable to suppose that the man, whose integrity and judgment in all
other matters are indisputable, was more likely than the acutest critic
or historian of modern times can possibly be to form a just estimate
of what was the possible best for his country, under the actual
circumstances of the time.
Had Horace at once become the panegyrist of the Caesar, the sincerity of
his convictions might have, been open to question. But thirteen years at
least had elapsed between the battle of Philippi and the composition
of the Second Ode of the First Book, which is the first direct
acknowledgment by Horace of Augustus as the chief of the state. This Ode
is directly inspired by gratitude for the cessation of civil strife, and
the skilful administration which had brought things to the point when
the whole fighting force of the kingdom, which had so long been wasted
in that strife, could be directed to spreading the glory of the Roman
name, and securing its supremacy throughout its conquered provinces.
The allusions to Augustus in this and others of the earlier Odes are
somewhat cold and formal in their tone. There is a visible increase in
glow and energy in those of a later date, when, as years went on, the
Caesar established fresh claims on the gratitude of Rome by his firm,
sagacious, and moderate policy, by the general prosperity which grew
up under his administration, by the success of his arms, by the great
public works which enhanced the splendour and convenience of the
capital, by the restoration of the laws, and by his zealous endeavour
to stem the tide of immorality which had set in during the protracted
disquietudes of the civil wars. It is true that during this time
Augustus was also establishing the system of Imperialism, which
contained in itself the germs of tyranny, with all its brutal excesses
on the one hand, and its debasing influence upon the subject nation on
the other. But we who have seen into what it developed must remember
that these baneful fruits of the system were of lengthened growth;
and Horace, who saw no farther into the future than the practical
politicians of his time, may be forgiven if he dwelt only upon the
immediate blessings which the government of Augustus effected, and the
peace and security which came with a tenfold welcome after the long
agonies of the civil wars.
The glow and sincerity of feeling of which we have spoken are
conspicuous in the following Ode (IV. 2), addressed to Iulus Antonius,
the son of the triumvir, of whose powers as a poet nothing is known
beyond the implied recognition of them contained in this Ode. The
Sicambri, with two other German tribes, had crossed the Rhine, laid
waste part of the Roman territory in Gaul, and inflicted so serious a
blow on Lollius, the Roman legate, that Augustus himself repaired
to Gaul to retrieve the defeat and resettle the province. This he
accomplished triumphantly (B.C. 17); and we may assume that the Ode
was written while the tidings of his success were still fresh, and the
Romans, who had been greatly agitated by the defeat of Lollius, were
looking eagerly forward to his return. Apart from, its other merits,
the Ode is interesting from the estimate Horace makes in it of his own
powers, and his avowal of the labour which his verses cost him.
"Iulus, he who'd rival Pindar's fame,
On waxen wings doth sweep
The Empyréan steep,
To fall like Icarus, and with his name
Endue the glassy deep.
"Like to a mountain stream, that roars
From bank to bank along,
When Autumn rains are strong,
So deep-mouthed Pindar lifts his voice, and pours
His fierce tumultuous song.
"Worthy Apollo's laurel wreath,
Whether he strike the lyre
To love and young desire,
While bold and lawless numbers grow beneath
His mastering touch of fire;
"Or sings of gods, and monarchs sprung
Of gods, that overthrew
The Centaurs, hideous crew,
And, fearless of the monster's fiery tongue,
The dread Chimaera slew;
"Or those the Eléan palm doth lift
To heaven, for wingèd steed,
Or sturdy arm decreed,
Giving, than hundred statues nobler gift,
The poet's deathless meed;
"Or mourns the youth snatched from his bride,
Extols his manhood clear,
And to the starry sphere
Exalts his golden virtues, scattering wide
The gloom of Orcus drear.
"When the Dircéan swan doth climb
Into the azure sky,
There poised in ether high,
He courts each gale, and floats on wing sublime,
Soaring with steadfast eye.
"I, like the tiny bee, that sips
The fragrant thyme, and strays
Humming through leafy ways,
By Tibur's sedgy banks, with trembling lips
Fashion my toilsome lays.
"But thou, when up the sacred steep
Caesar, with garlands crowned,
Leads the Sicambrians bound,
With bolder hand the echoing strings shalt sweep,
And bolder measures sound.
"Caesar, than whom a nobler son
The Fates and Heaven's kind powers
Ne'er gave this earth of ours,
Nor e'er will give though backward time should run
To its first golden hours.
"Thou too shalt sing the joyful days,
The city's festive throng,
When Caesar, absent long,
At length returns,--the Forum's silent ways,
Serene from strife and wrong.
"Then, though in statelier power it lack,
My voice shall swell the lay,
And sing, 'Oh, glorious day,
Oh, day thrice blest, that gives great Caesar back
To Rome, from hostile fray!'
"'Io Triumphe!' thrice the cry;
'Io Triumphe!' loud
Shall shout the echoing crowd
The city through, and to the gods on high
Raise incense like a cloud.
"Ten bulls shall pay thy sacrifice, With whom ten kine shall bleed:
I to the fane will lead
A yearling of the herd, of modest size,
From the luxuriant mead,
"Horned like the moon, when her pale light
Which three brief days have fed,
She trimmeth, and dispread
On his broad brows a spot of snowy white,
All else a tawny red."
Augustus did not return from Gaul, as was expected when this Ode was
written, but remained there for about two years. That this protracted
absence caused no little disquietude in Rome is apparent from the
following Ode (IV. 5):--
"From gods benign descended, thou
Best guardian of the fates of Rome,
Too long already from thy home
Hast thou, dear chief, been absent now;
"Oh, then return, the pledge redeem,
Thou gav'st the Senate, and once more
Its light to all the land restore;
For when thy face, like spring-tide's gleam,
"Its brightness on the people sheds,
Then glides the day more sweetly by,
A brighter blue pervades the sky,
The sun a richer radiance spreads!
"As on her boy the mother calls,
Her boy, whom envious tempests keep
Beyond the vexed Carpathian deep,
From his dear home, till winter falls,
"And still with vow and prayer she cries,
Still gazes on the winding shore,
So yearns the country evermore
For Caesar, with fond, wistful eyes.
"For safe the herds range field and fen,
Full-headed stand the shocks of grain,
Our sailors sweep the peaceful main,
And man can trust his fellow-men.
"No more adulterers stain our beds,
Laws, morals, both that taint efface,
The husband in the child we trace,
And close on crime sure vengeance treads.
"The Parthian, under Caesar's reign,
Or icy Scythian, who can dread,
Or all the tribes barbarian bred
By Germany, or ruthless Spain?
"Now each man, basking on his slopes,
Weds to his widowed trees the vine,
Then, as he gaily quaffs his wine,
Salutes thee god of all his hopes;
"And prayers to thee devoutly sends,
With deep libations; and, as Greece
Ranks Castor and great Hercules,
Thy godship with his Lares blends.
"Oh, may'st thou on Hesperia shine,
Her chief, her joy, for many a day!
Thus, dry-lipped, thus at morn we pray,
Thus pray at eve, when flushed with wine."
"It was perhaps the policy of Augustus," says Macleane, "to make his
absence felt; and we may believe that the language of Horace,
which bears much more the impress of real feeling than of flattery,
represented the sentiments of great numbers at Rome, who felt the want
of that presiding genius which had brought the city through its long
troubles, and given it comparative peace. There could not be a more
comprehensive picture of security and rest obtained through the
influence of one mind than is represented in this Ode, if we except that
with which no merely mortal language can compare (Isaiah, xi. and lxv.;
Micah, iv.)"
We must not assume, from the reference in this and other Odes to the
divine origin of Augustus, that this was seriously Relieved in by
Horace, any more than it was by Augustus himself. Popular credulity
ascribed divine honours to great men; and this was the natural growth
of a religious system in which a variety of gods and demigods played
so large a part. Julius Caesar claimed-no doubt, for the purpose
of impressing the Roman populace-a direct descent from _Alma Venus
Genitrix_, as Antony did from Hercules. Altars and temples were
dedicated to great statesmen and generals; and the Romans, among the
other things which they borrowed from the East, borrowed also the
practice of conferring the honours of apotheosis upon their rulers,--the
visible agents, in their estimation, of the great invisible power that
governed the world. To speak of their divine descent and attributes
became part of the common forms of the poetical vocabulary, not
inappropriate to the exalted pitch of lyrical enthusiasm. Horace only
falls into the prevailing strain, and is not compromising himself by
servile flattery, as some have thought, when he speaks in this Ode
of Augustus as "from gods benign descended," and in others as "the
heaven-sent son of Maia" (I. 2), or as reclining among the gods and
quaffing nectar "with lip of deathless bloom" (III. 3). In lyrical
poetry all this was quite in place. But when the poet contracts his
wings, and drops from its empyrean to the level of the earth, he speaks
to Augustus and of him simply as he thought (Epistles, II. 1)--as a
man on whose shoulders the weight of empire rested, who protected the
commonwealth by the vigour of his armies, and strove to grace it by
"sweeter manners, purer laws." He adds, it is true,--
"You while in life are honoured as divine,
And vows and oaths are taken at your shrine;
So Rome pays honour to her man of men,
Ne'er seen on earth before, ne'er to be seen again "--(C.)
but this is no more than a statement of a fact. Altars were erected to
Augustus, much against his will, and at these men made their prayers or
plighted their oaths every day. There is not a word to imply either that
Augustus took these divine honours, or that Horace joined in ascribing
them, seriously.
It is of some importance to the argument in favour of Horace's sincerity
and independence, that he had no selfish end to serve by standing well
with Augustus. We have seen that he was more than content with the
moderate fortune secured to him by Maecenas. Wealth had no charms for
him. His ambition was to make his mark as a poet. His happiness lay in
being his own master. There is no trace of his having at any period been
swayed by other views. What then had he to gain by courting the favour
of the head of the state? But the argument goes further. When Augustus
found the pressure of his private correspondence too great, as his
public duties increased, and his health, never robust, began to fail, he
offered Horace the post of his private secretary. The poet declined on
the ground of health. He contrived to do so in such a way as to give no
umbrage by the refusal; nay, the letters which are quoted in the life of
Horace ascribed to Suetonius show that Augustus begged the poet to treat
him on the same footing as if he had accepted the office, and actually
become a member of his household. "Our friend Septimius," he says in
another letter, "will tell you how much you are in my thoughts; for
something led to my speaking of you before him. Neither, if you were too
proud to accept my friendship, do I mean to deal with you in the same
spirit." There could have been little of the courtier in the man who was
thus addressed. Horace apparently felt that Augustus and himself were
likely to be better friends at a distance. He had seen enough of court
life to know how perilous it is to that independence which was his
dearest possession. "_Dulcis inexpertis cultura potentis amici,-Expertus
metuit_," is his ultimate conviction on this head (Epistles, I. 18)--
"Till time has made us wise,
'tis sweet to wait
Upon the smiles and favour of the great;
But he that once has ventured that career
Shrinks from its perils with instinctive fear."
In another place (Epistles, I. 10) he says, "_Fuge magna; licet sub
paupere tecto Reges et regum vita praecurrere amicos_"--
"_Keep clear of courts; a homely life transcends
The vaunted bliss of monarchs and their friends._" (C.)
But apart from such considerations, life would have lost its charm for
Horace, had he put himself within the trammels of official service. At
no time would these have been tolerable to him; but as he advanced into
middle age, the freedom of entire independence, the refreshing solitudes
of the country, leisure for study and reflection, became more and more
precious to him. The excitements and gaieties and social enjoyments of
Rome were all very well, but a little of them went a great way. They
taxed his delicate health, and they interfered with the graver studies,
to which he became daily more inclined as the years went by. Not all his
regard for Maecenas himself, deep as it was, could induce him to stay in
town to enliven the leisure hours of the statesman by his companionship
at the expense of those calm seasons of communion with nature and
the books of the great men of old, in which he could indulge his
irresistible craving for some solution of the great problems of life and
philosophy. Men like Maecenas, whose power and wealth are practically
unbounded, are apt to become importunate even in their friendships, and
to think that everything should give way to the gratification of their
wishes. Something of this spirit had obviously been shown towards
Horace. Maecenas may have expressed himself in a tone of complaint,
either to the poet himself, or in some way that had reached his ears,
about his prolonged absence in the country, which implied that he
considered his bounties had given him a claim upon the time of Horace
which was not sufficiently considered. This could only have been a burst
of momentary impatience, for the nature of Maecenas was too generous to
admit of any other supposition. But Horace felt it; and with the utmost
delicacy of tact, but with a decision that left no room for mistake, he
lost no time in letting Maecenas know, that rather than brook control
upon his movements, however slight, he will cheerfully forego the gifts
of his friend, dear as they are, and grateful for them as he must always
be. To this we owe the following Epistle (I. 7). That Maecenas loved his
friend all the better for it--he could scarcely respect him more than he
seems to have done from the first--we may be very sure.
Only five days, I said, I should be gone;
Yet August's past, and still I linger on.
'Tis true I've broke my promise. But if you
Would have me well, as I am sure you do,
Grant me the same indulgence, which, were I
Laid up with illness, you would not deny,
Although I claim it only for the fear
Of being ill, this deadly time of year,
When autumn's clammy heat and early fruits
Deck undertakers out, and inky mutes;
When young mammas, and fathers to a man,
With terrors for their sons and heirs are wan;
When stifling anteroom, or court, distils
Fevers wholesale, and breaks the seals of wills.
Should winter swathe the Alban fields in snow,
Down to the sea your poet means to go,
To nurse his ailments, and, in cosy nooks
Close huddled up, to loiter o'er his books.
But once let zephyrs blow, sweet friend, and then,
If then you'll have him, he will quit his den,
With the first swallow hailing you again.
When you bestowed on me what made me rich,
Not in the spirit was it done, in which
Your bluff Calabrian on a guest will thrust
His pears: "Come, eat, man, eat--you can, you must!"
"Indeed, indeed, my friend, I've had enough."
"Then take some home!" "You're too obliging." "Stuff!
If you have pockets full of them, I guess,
Your little lads will like you none the less."
"I really can't--thanks all the same!" "You won't?
Why then the pigs shall have them, if you don't."
'Tis fools and prodigals, whose gifts consist
Of what they spurn, or what is never missed:
Such tilth will never yield, and never could,
A harvest save of coarse ingratitude.
A wise good man is evermore alert,
When he encounters it, to own desert;
Nor is he one, on whom you'd try to pass
For sterling currency mere lackered brass.
For me, 'twill be my aim myself to raise
Even to the flattering level of your praise;
But if you'd have me always by your side,
Then give me back the chest deep-breathed and wide,
The low brow clustered with its locks of black,
The flow of talk, the ready laugh, give back,
The woes blabbed o'er our wine, when Cinara chose
To teaze me, cruel flirt--ah, happy woes!
Through a small hole a field-mouse, lank and thin,
Had squeezed his way into a barley bin,
And, having fed to fatness on the grain,
Tried to get out, but tried and squeezed in vain.
"Friend," cried a weasel, loitering thereabout,
"Lean you went in, and lean you must get out."
Now, at my head if folks this story throw,
Whate'er I have I'm ready to forego;
I am not one, with forced meats in my throat,
Fine saws on poor men's dreamless sleep to quote.
Unless in soul as very air I'm free,
Not all the wealth of Araby for me.
You've ofttimes praised the reverent, yet true
Devotion, which my heart has shown for you.
King, father, I have called you, nor been slack
In words of gratitude behind your back;
But even your bounties, if you care to try,
You'll find I can renounce without a sigh.
Not badly young Telemachus replied,
Ulysses' son, that man so sorely tried:
"No mettled steeds in Ithaca we want;
The ground is broken there, the herbage scant.
Let me, Atrides, then, thy gifts decline,
In thy hands they are better far than mine!"
Yes, little things fit little folks. In Rome
The Great I never feel myself at home.
Let me have Tibur, and its dreamful ease,
Or soft Tarentum's nerve-relaxing breeze.
Philip, the famous counsel, on a day--
A burly man, and wilful in his way--
From court returning, somewhere about two,
And grumbling, for his years were far from few,
That the Carinae [1] were so distant, though
But from the Forum half a mile or so,
Descried a fellow in a barber's booth,
All by himself, his chin fresh shaved and smooth,
Trimming his nails, and with the easy air
Of one uncumbered by a wish or care.
"Demetrius!"--'twas his page, a boy of tact,
In comprehension swift, and swift in act,
"Go, ascertain his rank, name, fortune; track
His father, patron!" In a trice he's back.
"An auction-crier, Volteius Mena, sir,
Means poor enough, no spot on character,
Good or to work or idle, get or spend,
Has his own house, delights to see a friend,
Fond of the play, and sure, when work is done,
Of those who crowd the Campus to make one."
"I'd like to hear all from himself. Away,
Bid him come dine with me--at once--to-day!"
Mena some trick in the request divines,
Turns it all ways, then civilly declines.
"What! Says me nay?" "'Tis even so, sir. Why?
Can't say. Dislikes you, or, more likely, shy."
Next morning Philip searches Mena out,
And finds him vending to a rabble rout
Old crazy lumber, frippery of the worst,
And with all courtesy salutes him first.
Mena pleads occupation, ties of trade,
His service else he would by dawn have paid,
At Philip's house,--was grieved to think, that how
He should have failed to notice him till now.
"On one condition I accept your plea.
You come this afternoon, and dine with me."
"Yours to command." "Be there, then, sharp at four!
Now go, work hard, and make your little more!"
At dinner Mena rattled on, expressed
Whate'er came uppermost, then home to rest.
The hook was baited craftily, and when
The fish came nibbling ever and again,
At morn a client, and, when asked to dine,
Not now at all in humour to decline,
Philip himself one holiday drove him down,
To see his villa some few miles from town.
Mena keeps praising up, the whole way there,
The Sabine country, and the Sabine air;
So Philip sees his fish is fairly caught,
And smiles with inward triumph at the thought.
Resolved at any price to have his whim,--
For that is best of all repose to him,--
Seven hundred pounds he gives him there and then,
Proffers on easy terms as much again,
And so persuades him, that, with tastes like his,
He ought to buy a farm;--so bought it is.
Not to detain you longer than enough,
The dapper cit becomes a farmer bluff,
Talks drains and subsoils, ever on the strain
Grows lean, and ages with the lust of gain.
But when his sheep are stolen, when murrains smite
His goats, and his best crops are killed with blight,
When at the plough his oxen drop down dead,
Stung with his losses, up one night from bed
He springs, and on a cart-horse makes his way,
All wrath, to Philip's house, by break of day.
"How's this?" cries Philip, seeing him unshorn
And shabby. "Why, Vulteius, you look worn.
You work, methinks, too long upon the stretch."
"Oh, that's not it, my patron. Call me wretch!
That is the only fitting name for me.
Oh, by thy Genius, by the gods that be
Thy hearth's protectors, I beseech, implore,
Give me, oh, give me back my life of yore!"
If for the worse you find you've changed your place,
Pause not to think, but straight your steps retrace.
In every state the maxim still is true,
On your own last take care to fit your shoe!
[1] The street where he lived, or, as we should say, "Ship Street." The
name was due probably to the circumstance of models of ships being
set up in it.