THE SECOND BOOK OF THE SATIRES OF HORACE.

SATIRE I.

_He supposes himself to consult with Trebatius, whether he should desist
from writing satires, or not_.

There are some persons to whom I seem too severe in [the writing of]
satire, and to carry it beyond proper bounds: another set are of
opinion, that all I have written is nerveless, and that a thousand
verses like mine may be spun out in a day. Trebatius, give me your
advice, what shall I do. Be quiet. I should not make, you say, verses at
all. I do say so. May I be hanged, if that would not be best: but I can
not sleep. Let those, who want sound sleep, anointed swim thrice across
the Tiber: and have their clay well moistened with wine over-night. Or,
if such a great love of scribbling hurries you on, venture to celebrate
the achievements of the invincible Caesar, certain of bearing off ample
rewards for your pains.

Desirous I am, my good father, [to do this,] but my strength fails me,
nor can any one describe the troops bristled with spears, nor the Gauls
dying on their shivered darts, nor the wounded Parthian falling from his
horse. Nevertheless you may describe him just and brave, as the wise
Lucilius did Scipio. I will not be wanting to myself, when an
opportunity presents itself: no verses of Horace's, unless well-timed,
will gain the attention of Caesar; whom, [like a generous steed,] if you
stroke awkwardly, he will kick upon you, being at all quarters on his
guard. How much better would this be, than to wound with severe satire
Pantolabus the buffoon, and the rake Nomentanus! when every body is
afraid for himself, [lest he should be the next,] and hates you, though
he is not meddled with. What shall I do? Milonius falls a dancing the
moment he becomes light-headed and warm, and the candles appear
multiplied. Castor delights in horsemanship: and he, who sprang from the
same egg, in boxing. As many thousands of people [as there are in the
world], so many different inclinations are there. It delights me to
combine words in meter, after the manner of Lucilius, a better man than
both of us. He long ago communicated his secrets to his books, as to
faithful friends; never having recourse elsewhere, whether things went
well or ill with him: whence it happens, that the whole life of this old
[poet] is as open to the view, as if it had been painted en a votive
tablet. His example I follow, though in doubt whether I am a Lucanian or
an Apulian; for the Ve