Page:Satires, Epistles, Art of Poetry of Horace - Coningsby (1874).djvu/168

He'll not refuse to dress, or keep his bed;
Clothed as you please, he'll walk the crowded street,
And, though not fine, will manage to look neat.
Put purple on the other, not the touch
Of toad or asp would startle him so much;
Give back his blanket, or he'll die of chill:
Yes, give it back; he's too absurd to kill.
To win great fights, to lead before men's eyes
A captive foe, is half way to the skies:
Just so, to gain by honourable ways
A great man's favour is no vulgar praise:
You know the proverb, "Corinth town is fair,
But 'tis not every man that can get there."
One man sits still, not hoping to succeed;
One makes the journey; he's a man indeed!
'Tis that we look for; not to shift a weight
Which little frames and little souls think great,
But stoop and bear it. Virtue's a mere name,
Or 'tis high venture that achieves high aim.
Those who have tact their poverty to mask
Before their chief get more than those who ask;
It makes, you see, a difference, if you take
As modest people do, or snatch your cake;
Yet that's the point from which our question starts,
By what way best to get at patrons' hearts.
"My mother's poor, my sister's dower is due,
My farm won't sell or yield us corn enow,"
What is all this but just the beggar's cry,
"I'm starving; give me food for charity"?
"Ah!" whines another in a minor key,