The Satires, Epistles & Art of Poetry of Horace/Ep1-15

by Quintus Horatius Flaccus

XV. To C. Numonius Vala.

Quæ sit hiems Veliæ.

F Velia and Salernum tell me, pray,
The climate, and the natives, and the way:
For Baiæ now is lost on me, and I,
Once its staunch friend, am turned its enemy,
Through Musa's fault, who makes me undergo
His cold-bath treatment, spite of frost and snow.
Good sooth, the town is filled with spleen, to see
Its myrtle-groves attract no company;
To find its sulphur-wells, which forced out pain
From joint and sinew, treated with disdain
By tender chests and heads, now grown so bold,
They brave cold water in the depth of cold,
And, finding down at Clusium what they want,
Or Gabii, say, make that their winter haunt.
Yes, I must change my quarters; my good horse
Must pass the inns where once he stopped of course.

"How now, you creature? I'm not bound to-day
For Cumæ or for Baiæ," I shall say,
Pulling the left rein angrily, because
A horse when bridled listens through his jaws.
Which place is best supplied with corn, d'ye think?
Have they rain-water or fresh springs to drink?
Their wines I care not for: when at my farm
I can drink any sort without much harm;
But at the sea I need a generous kind
To warm my veins and pass into my mind,
Enrich me with new hopes, choice words supply,
And make me comely in a lady's eye.
Which tract is best for game, on which sea-coast
Urchins and other fish abound the most,
That so, when I return, my friends may see
A sleek Phæacian come to life in me:
These things you needs must tell me, Vala dear,
And I no less must act on what I hear.
⁠When Mænius, after nobly gobbling down
His fortune, took to living on the town,
A social beast of prey, with no fixed home,
He ranged and ravened o'er the whole of Rome;
His maw unfilled, he'd turn on friend and foe;
None was too high for worrying, none too low;
The scourge and murrain of each butcher's shop,
Whate'er he got, he stuffed into his crop.
So, when he'd failed in getting e'er a bit
From those who liked or feared his wicked wit,
Then down a throat of three-bear power he'd cram
Plate after plate of offal, tripe or lamb,

And swear, as Bestius might, your gourmand knaves
Should have their stomachs branded like a slave's.
But give the brute a piece of daintier prey,
When all was done, he'd smack his lips and say,
"In faith I cannot wonder, when I hear
Of folks who waste a fortune on good cheer,
For there's no treat in nature more divine
Than a fat thrush or a big paunch of swine."
I'm just his double: when my purse is lean
I hug myself, and praise the golden mean,
Stout when not tempted; but suppose some day
A special titbit comes into my way,
I vow man's happiness is ne'er complete
Till based on a substantial country seat.