Page:Satires, Epistles, Art of Poetry of Horace - Coningsby (1874).djvu/113

He'd stop his car and offer me a seat,
Or make such chance remarks as "What's o'clock?"
"Will Syria's champion beat the Thracian cock?"
"These morning frosts are apt to be severe;"
Just chit-chat, suited to a leaky ear.
Since that auspicious date, each day and hour
Has placed me more and more in envy's power:
"He joined his play, sat next him at the games:
A child of Fortune!" all the world exclaims.
From the high rostra a report comes down,
And like a chilly fog, pervades the town:
Each man I meet accosts me "Is it so?
You live so near the gods, you're sure to know:
That news about the Dacians? have you heard
No secret tidings?" "Not a single word."
"O yes! you love to banter us poor folk."
"Nay, if I've heard a tittle, may I choke!"
"Will Cæsar grant his veterans their estates
In Italy, or t'other side of the straits?"
I swear that I know nothing, and am dumb:
They think me deep, miraculously mum.
And so my day between my fingers slips,
While fond regrets keep rising to my lips:
O my dear homestead in the country! when
Shall I behold your pleasant face again;
And, studying now, now dozing and at ease,
Imbibe forgetfulness of all this tease?
O when, Pythagoras, shall thy brother bean,
With pork and cabbage, on my board be seen?
O happy nights and suppers half divine,