Does it take you all day you gallows-bird, to tell me
Where such rot leads? ‘To you, say I.’ How so, you wretch?
‘You praise the good luck and manners of men of old,
But if some god suddenly urged you to visit that era,
You’d refuse every time, ‘cos you don’t really believe
What you praise was better, or else ‘cos you’re not firm
In defence of what’s true, sticking fast in the mud while
Vainly struggling to get free. In Rome you yearn for the fields:
Once there, waverer, you laud the far town to the skies.
If by chance you’re not asked out to dinner you praise
Cabbage in peace, call yourself happy and hug yourself
For not partying, as if you’d have to be forced to go.
But Maecenas sends you a late invitation at twilight,
And you scream: “Where’s the lamp-oil? Quick, are you
Deaf?” at the top of your voice, then off you scurry.
Mulvius and your other hangers-on disperse,
With unmentionable curses aimed your way. He says,
“I’m easily goaded on by my belly, it’s true, nostrils
Twitching at savoury smells, weak, spineless, a glutton
Too, if you wish, but since he’s just the same or worse,
What cause has he to criticise me, and cloak his vices
In decorous words” What if you’re more foolish than me,
Who cost you five hundred! Don’t try and scare me pulling
Faces: control your hands and your spleen, while I preach
The lessons I learned from Crispinus’ door-keeper.’