‘When you gaze like an idiot at Pausias’ paintings,
Why’s that less harmful than my admiring a fight,
With Fulvius, Rutuba, or Pacideianus, tense-kneed,
Sketched in red-chalk or charcoal, as if they were really
Battling away, thrusting and parrying and waving
Their blades? Davus is a ‘worthless idler’: while you
Pass for a ‘subtle and knowing’ judge of old masters!
If I’m tempted by hot pastry, I’m good-for-nothing:
But does your great virtuous mind turn down fine dinners?
Why is it worse for me to be slave to my belly?
Because my back pays? But do you escape scot-free
Attracted by delicacies that no small sum will buy?
Dinners endlessly pursued only turn to bitter aching,
And overtaxed legs refuse to carry your swollen
Body. Is the slave who trades a stolen bath-brush
For grapes, at nightfall, guilty? Then is he not slave-like
Who sells his estates to serve his gullet? Add that you
Can’t bear an hour in your own company, or employ
Your leisure usefully, that you evade yourself
Like a fugitive, a vagabond, trying to cheat Care
With sleep or wine: vainly: that dark companion dogs
Your flight.’ Bring me a stone! ‘What for?’ Or arrows!
‘The man’s mad, or making verses.’ Scarper, pronto! Or
You’ll end up labourer number nine on my Sabine Farm!