Page:Satires, Epistles, Art of Poetry of Horace - Coningsby (1874).djvu/119

What? you to be my master, who obey
More persons, nay, more things than words can say,
Whom not the prætor's wand, though four times waved,
Could make less tyrant-ridden, less enslaved?
Press home the matter further: how d'ye call
The thrall who's servant to another thrall?
An understrapper, say; the name will do;
Or fellow-servant: such am I to you:
For you, whose work I do, do others' work,
And move as dolls move when their wires we jerk.
Who then is free? The sage, who keeps in check
His baser self, who lives at his own beck,
Whom neither poverty nor dungeon drear
Nor death itself can ever put in fear,
Who can reject life's goods, resist desire,
Strong, firmly braced, and in himself entire,
A hard smooth ball that gives you ne'er a grip,
'Gainst whom when Fortune runs, she's sure to trip.
Such are the marks of freedom: look them through,
And tell me, is there one belongs to you?
Your mistress begs for money, plagues you sore,
Ducks you with water, drives you from her door,
Then calls you back: break the vile bondage; cry
"I'm free, I'm free."—Alas, you cannot. Why?
There's one within you, armed with spur and stick,
Who turns and drives you, howsoe'er you kick.
On one of Pausias' masterworks you pore,
As you were crazy: what does Davus more,