THE SATIRES OF JUVENAL
SATIRE I
Difficile est Saturam non Scribere
What? Am I to be a listener only all my days? Am I never to get my word in—I that have been so often bored by the Theseid[1] of the ranting Cordus? Shall this one have spouted to me his comedies, and that one his love ditties, and I be unavenged? Shall I have no revenge on one who has taken up the whole day with an interminable Telephus,[2] or with an Orestes,[2] which, after filling the margin at the top of the roll and the back as well, hasn't even yet come to an end? No one knows his own house so well as I know the groves of Mars, and the cave of Vulcan near the cliffs of Aeolus. What the winds are brewing; whose souls Aeacus[3] has on the rack; from what country another worthy[4] is carrying off that stolen golden fleece; how big are the ash trees which Monychus[5] tosses about; these are the themes with which Fronto's[6] plane trees and marble halls are for ever ringing until the pillars quiver and quake under the continual recitations; such is the kind of stuff you may look for from every poet, greatest or least. Well, I too have slipped my hand from under the cane; I too have counselled Sulla to
B 2
