Page:Satires, Epistles, Art of Poetry of Horace - Coningsby (1874).djvu/67

Will work a wonder with the menial tribe:
Say, I'm refused admittance for to-day;
I'll watch my time; I'll meet him in the way,
Escort him, dog him. In this world of ours
The path to what we want ne'er runs on flowers."
'Mid all this prate there met us, as it fell,
Aristius, my good friend, who knew him well.
We stop: inquiries and replies go round:
"Where do you hail from?" "Whither are you bound?"
There as he stood, impassive as a clod,
I pull at his limp arms, frown, wink, and nod,
To urge him to release me. With a smile
He feigns stupidity: I burn with bile.
"Something there was you said you wished to tell
To me in private." "Ay, I mind it well;
But not just now: 'tis a Jews' fast to-day:
Affront a sect so touchy! nay, friend, nay."
"Faith, I've no scruples." "Ah! but I've a few:
I'm weak, you know, and do as others do:
Some other time: excuse me." Wretched me!
That ever man so black a sun should see!
Off goes the rogue, and leaves me in despair,
Tied to the altar, with the knife in air:
When, by rare chance, the plaintiff in the suit
Knocks up against us: "Whither now, you brute?"
He roars like thunder: then to me: "You'll stand
My witness, sir?" "My ear's at your command."
Off to the court he drags him: shouts succeed:
A mob collects: thank Phœbus, I am freed.