Page:Satires, Epistles, Art of Poetry of Horace - Coningsby (1874).djvu/130

You lack, say, some six thousand of the rate
The law has settled as a knight's estate;
Though soul, tongue, morals, credit, all the while
Are yours, you reckon with the rank and file.
But mark those children at their play; they sing,
"Deal fairly, youngster, and we'll crown you king."
Be this your wall of brass, your coat of mail,
A guileless heart, a cheek no crime turns pale.
"Which is the better teacher, tell me, pray,
The law of Roscius, or the children's lay
That crowns fair dealing, by Camillus trolled,
And manly Curius, in the days of old;
The voice that says, "Make money, money, man;
Well, if so be,—if not, which way you can,"
That from a nearer distance you may gaze
At honest Pupius' all too moving plays;
Or that which bids you meet with dauntless brow,
The frowns of Fortune, aye, and shows you how?
Suppose the world of Rome accosts me thus:
"You walk where we walk; why not think with us,
Be ours for better or for worse, pursue
The things we love, the things we hate eschew?"
I answer as sly Reynard answered, when
The ailing lion asked him to his den:
"I'm frightened at those footsteps: every track
Leads to your home, but ne'er a one leads back."
Nay, you're a perfect Hydra: who shall choose
Which view to follow out of all your views?
Some farm the taxes; some delight to see
Their money grow by usury, like a tree;