Page:Satires, Epistles, Art of Poetry of Horace - Coningsby (1874).djvu/75

Count all the folks in all the world, you'll find
A separate fancy for each separate mind.
To drill reluctant words into a line,
This was Lucilius' hobby, and 'tis mine.
Good man, he was our better: yet he took
Such pride in nought as in his darling book:
That was his friend, to whom he would confide
The secret thoughts he hid from all beside,
And, whether Fortune used him well or ill,
Thither for sympathy he turned him still:
So there, as in a votive tablet penned,
You see the veteran's life from end to end.
His footsteps now I follow as I may,
Lucanian or Apulian, who shall say?
For we Venusians live upon the line
Just where Lucania and Apulia join,
Planted,'tis said, there in the Samnites' place,
To guard for Rome the intermediate space,
Lest these or those some day should make a raid
In time of war, and Roman soil invade.
But this poor implement of mine, my pen,
Shall ne'er assault one soul of living men:
Like a sheathed sword, I'll carry it about,
Just to protect my life when I go out,
A weapon I shall never care to draw,
While my good neighbours keep within the law.
O grant, dread Father, grant my steel may rust!
Grant that no foe may play at cut and thrust
With my peace-loving self! but should one seek
To quarrel with me, yon shall hear him shriek: