There’s little fear of your punishing with the cane
One who deserves worse, given you’d say that theft
Is as bad as highway robbery, and use the same hook
To prune all crime great or small, if only men gave you
Royal powers. If as the Stoics say the wise man’s rich,
Uniquely handsome, a brilliant cobbler, a king for sure,
Why do you need to be given what you already have?
‘That’s not what Chrysippus meant’, they cry, ‘without making
Sandals or shoes the wise man is still a fine cobbler.’ What?
‘Just as a silent Hermogenes is still the best singer
And player: and clever Alfenus when he’d thrown away
All the tools of his trade and closed up his shop, was
A barber still, so the wise man alone’s the master
Of every role, and so a king.’ O mightiest king
Of mighty kings, mischievous lads pluck at your beard:
And unless you drive them away with your staff, the crowd
All round you jostle, while you poor wretch fume and snarl!
To be brief, while you, a king, go to your public bath
Without a single attendant to keep you company
But stupid Crispinus, my sweet friends will forgive me
If I, a fool, commit some crime, and I’ll tolerate
Gladly in turn all their shortcomings, and I’ll live,
More happily than your majesty, a private man.