Page:Satires, Epistles, Art of Poetry of Horace - Coningsby (1874).djvu/106

T. You get safe home, you see your native isle,
And yet it craves for more, that heart of guile!
U. O source of truth unerring, you're aware,
I reach my home impoverished and stripped bare
(So you predict), and find nor bit nor sup,
My flocks all slaughtered and my wines drunk up:
Yet family and worth, without the staff
Of wealth to lean on, are the veriest draff.
T. Since, in plain terms, 'tis poverty you fear,
And riches are your aim, attend and hear.
Suppose a thrush or other dainty placed
At your disposal, for your private taste,
Speed it to some great house, all gems and gold,
Where means are ample, and their master old:
Your choicest apples, ripe and full of juice,
And whatsoe'er your garden may produce,
Before they're offered at the Lares' shrine,
Give them to your rich friend, as more divine:
Be he a branded slave, forsworn, distained
With brother's blood, in short, a rogue ingrained,
Yet walk, if asked, beside him when you meet,
And (pray mind this) between him and the street.
U. What, give a slave the wall? in happier days,
At Troy, for instance, these were not my ways:
Then with the best I matched myself.
T. Indeed?
I'm sorry: then you'll always be in need.