Page:Satires, Epistles, Art of Poetry of Horace - Coningsby (1874).djvu/146

I've called you Father, praised your royal grace
Behind your back as well as to your face;
You've owned I have a conscience: try me now
If I can quit your gifts with cheerful brow.
That was a prudent answer which, we're told,
The son of wise Ulysses made of old:
"Our Ithaca is scarce the place for steeds;
It has no level plains, no grassy meads:
Atrides, if you'll let me, I'll decline
A gift that better meets your wants than mine."
Small things become small folks: imperial Rome
Is all too large, too bustling for a home;
The empty heights of Tibur, or the bay
Of soft Tarentum, more are in my way.
Philip, the famous counsel, years ago,
Was moving home at two, sedate and slow,
Old, and fatigued with pleading at the bar,
And grumbling that he lived away so far,
When suddenly he chanced his eye to drop
On a spruce personage in a barber's shop,
Who in the shopman's absence lounged at ease,
Paring his nails as calmly as you please.
"Demetrius"—so was called the slave he kept
To do his errands, a well-trained adept—
"Find out about that man for me; enquire
His name and rank, his patron or his sire."
He soon brings word that Mena is the name,
An auction-crier, poor, but without blame,
One who can work or idle, get or spend,
Who loves his home and likes to see a friend,