Page:Satires, Epistles, Art of Poetry of Horace - Coningsby (1874).djvu/43

Of this there seems small danger, when you say
That theft's as bad as robbery in its way,
And vow all villains, great and small, shall swing
From the same tree, if men will make you king.
But tell me, Stoic, if the wise, you teach,
Is king, Adonis, cobbler, all and each,
Why wish for what you've got? "You fail to see
What great Chrysippus means by that," says he.
"What though the wise ne'er shoe nor slipper made,
The wise is still a brother of the trade.
Just as Hermogenes, when silent, still
Remains a singer of consummate skill,
As sly Alfenius, when he had let drop
His implements of art and shut up shop,
Was still a barber, so the wise is best
In every craft, a king's among the rest."
Hail to your majesty! yet, ne'ertheless,
Rude boys are pulling at your beard, I guess;
And now, unless your cudgel keeps them off,
The mob begins to hustle, push, and scoff;
You, all forlorn, attempt to stand at bay,
And roar till your imperial lungs give way.
Well, so we part: each takes his separate path:
You make your progress to your farthing bath,
A king, with ne'er a follower in your train,
Except Crispinus, that distempered brain;
While I find pleasant friends to screen me, when
I chance to err, like other foolish men;
Bearing and borne with, so the change we ring,
More blest as private folks than you as king.