Maecenas, though none of the Lydians settled
In Tuscany is of nobler birth than yours,
And though your maternal and paternal grandfathers
Commanded mighty legions in days of old,
You don’t turn your nose up as most men do
At men of unknown birth, sons of freedmen like me.
When you say it’s irrelevant who a man’s father is
If he’s free born, you’re persuaded correctly
By the fact that before low-born Tullius ruled,
Many men born of insignificant ancestors often
Lived virtuous lives and were blessed with high office:
While Laevinus, scion of that Valerius from whom
Tarquin the Proud fled, driven from his throne, was never
Rated a penny higher, even in the crowd’s judgement,
Who, you know well, often grant honours stupidly
To the unworthy, and are sadly enthralled by fame,
Dazzled by titles, and ancestral busts. What about us
Then, being far, far removed from the vulgar masses?
Let us accept the people would rather put Laevinus
In office, than unknown Decius, and a censor like Appius
Would strike out my name if I weren’t the son of a freeborn
Father: rightly, for not having stuck to my own ass’s skin,
Yet Ambition drags all along bound to her glittering
Chariot, noble and lowly. What use was it Tillius for you
To resume the broad stripe you lost, becoming a tribune?
Envy grew, that of a private person would have been less,
For as soon as anyone’s crazy enough to bind black
Senatorial thongs to his legs and wear the broad stripe
On his chest, it’s: ‘Who’s this fellow? Who was his dad?’
It’s just like suffering from Barrus’ sickness, longing
To be deemed handsome, so that wherever he went
He’d incite girls’ interest in personal details, what of
His face, his ankles, his feet, his teeth, and his hair:
Well he who promises to care for the city and people,
The Empire, and Italy, and all the gods’ temples,
Forces the whole mortal world to show interest
In who was his father, and whether his mother’s low-born.
‘Do you the son of a slave, a Syrus, a Dama, a Dionysius,
Dare to hand us over to Cadmus or hurl us from the Rock?’
‘But, Novius, my colleague’ he cries, ‘is only a row behind
In the theatre, he’s what my father was.’ ‘And does that
Make you Messalla or Paulus? If two hundred carts
In the Forum meet three big funerals, this Novius at least
Shouts loud enough to drown out the horns and trumpets.’