"Tis bought: to make a lengthy tale concise,
The man becomes a clown who once was nice,
Talks all of elms and vineyards, ploughs and soil,
And ages fast with struggling and sheer toil;
Till, when his sheep are stolen, his bullock drops,
His goats die off, a blight destroys his crops,
One night he takes a waggon-horse, and sore
With all his losses, rides to Philip's door.
Philip perceives him squalid and unshorn,
And cries, "Why, Mena! surely you look worn;
You work too hard." "Nay, call me wretch," says he,
"Good patron; 'tis the only name for me.
So now, by all that's binding among men,
I beg you, give me my old life again."
He that finds out he's changed his lot for worse,
Let him betimes the untoward choice reverse:
For still, when all is said, the rule stands fast,
'That each man's shoe be made on his own last.
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VIII. To Celsus Albinovanus.
Celso gaudere.
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EALTH to friend Celsus—so, good Muse, report—
Who holds the pen in Nero's little court!
If asked about me, say, I plan and plan,
'Yet live useless and unhappy man:
