0
Yet spy we nothing of our back-borne pack.

That Suffenus, Varus, whom thou know'st right well, is a man fair spoken,
witty and urbane, and one who makes of verses lengthy store. I think he has
writ at full length ten thousand or more, nor are they set down, as of
custom, on palimpsest: regal paper, new boards, unused bosses, red ribands,
lead-ruled parchment, and all most evenly pumiced. But when thou readest
these, that refined and urbane Suffenus is seen on the contrary to be a
mere goatherd or ditcher-lout, so great and shocking is the change. What
can we think of this? he who just now was seen a professed droll, or e'en
shrewder than such in gay speech, this same becomes more boorish than a
country boor immediately he touches poesy, nor is the dolt e'er as
self-content as when he writes in verse,--so greatly is he pleased with
himself, so much does he himself admire. Natheless, we all thus go astray,
nor is there any man in whom thou canst not see a Suffenus in some one
point. Each of us has his assigned delusion: but we see not what's in the
wallet on our back.

XXIII.

Furei, quoi neque servos est neque arca
Nec cimex neque araneus neque ignis,
Verumst et pater et noverca, quorum
Dentes vel silicem comesse possunt,
Est pulchre tibi cum tuo parente 5
Et cum coniuge lignea parentis.
Nec mirum: bene nam valetis omnes,
Pulchre concoquitis, nihil timetis,
Non incendia, non graves ruinas,
Non furta inpia, non dolos veneni, 10
Non casus alios periculorum.
Atqui corpora sicciora cornu
Aut siquid magis aridumst habetis
Sole et frigore et essuritione.
Quare non tibi sit bene ac beate? 15
A te sudor abest, abest saliva,
Mucusque et mala pituita nasi.
Hanc ad munditiem adde mundiorem,
Quod culus tibi purior salillost,
Nec toto decies cacas in anno, 20
Atque id durius est faba et lapillis;
Quod tu si manibus teras fricesque,
Non umquam digitum inquinare possis.
Haec tu commoda tam beata, Furi,
Noli spernere nec putare parvi, 25
Et sestertia quae soles precari
Centum desine: nam sat es beatus.

XXIII.

TO FURIUS SATIRICALLY PRAISING HIS POVERTY.

Furius! Nor chest, nor slaves can claim,
Bug, Spider, nor e'en hearth aflame,
Yet thine a sire and step-dame who
Wi' tooth can ever flint-food chew!
So t