There are those who think my satire’s too sharp, that I
Push the form beyond its proper limits: others
Think what I write is tame, that a thousand verses
A day could be churned out just like mine. Trebatius
Advise me what to do. ‘Rest.’ You mean I should write
Nothing? ‘I do.’ Perish me, if that wouldn’t be best:
But you know I can’t sleep. ‘Whoever needs sound sleep,
Should rub themselves with oil, swim the Tiber thrice,
Then, as evening falls, refresh themselves with wine.
Or if love of scribbling possesses you, bravely
Tell of invincible Caesar’s battles, you’ll win
Many a prize for your pains.’ I wish I could, dear man,
But I lack the power: not everyone can describe
Lines of bristling lances, Gauls dying, spears broken,
Or a wounded Parthian slipping off his horse.
‘You could write of the man himself, brave and just,
As wise Lucilius did of Scipio.’ I won’t fail
If that chance occurs: but unless the moment’s right
A Flaccus’ words won’t find Caesar’s ears attentive,
Stroke him wrongly, and he’ll lash out in self-defence.
‘It’s still wiser than wounding that joker Pantolabus
With bitter verses, or that wastrel Nomentanus,
Till all the unsung fear for themselves, and hate you.’