English

The Cyclops of old, could he only behold
Polyphemus, would start with surprise,
And Scylla for shame's sake would turn from her namesake
So ghastly their faces and size.
Ah, would it were fated the pair should be mated
Their terror they hardly could smother,
Just think of the sight when each shuddered with fright
And fainted at view of the other!

You know the dread signal of death I suppose?
But one whimsical quaestor has lately ordained
A new one, and said if he once blew his nose
It was sentence of death on the culprit arraigned.
Till winter drew on was the custom maintained,
Then the judge caught catarrh from December's chill breath
And his colleagues rushed up and his hands they restrained
Or all the accused had been sentenced to death.

What time my rugged cot endured the bane
Of winter's drenching floods, your kindly care
Sent wherewithal the havoc to repair
And so my roof defies the sudden rain.
Think how rude Boreas roars; the boon is vain
That clothes the farm but leaves the farmer bare.

These cackling fowls and eggs I send you,
These Chian figs grown ripe in tempered heat,
The shaggy kid for which his dam doth bleat,
The cabbage white with rime of frozen dew
That hath not marred the olives' tender hue,
Think you that all are from my country-seat?

Nay, Regulus, you will not understand,
Naught in my starveling field could you descry
Save me; far Umbria doth your need supply
And rich suburban gardens nigh at hand:
What Tusculum doth yield at your demand
I hunt through all the market-place to buy.

C AELIA , you love a Teuton swain,
An Asiatic stirs your pity,
For you swart Indians cross the main,
Copts flock to you from Pharos' city.

A Jew, a Scythian cavalier,
Can please you — but I can't discover
Why you, a Roman, are austere
To none except a Roman lover.

Friend may your woods where Dian roves
Grow still more fair for you,
Though oft you lop the leafy groves
May these their grace renew.
Rich olives in Tartessus grow,
Be yours more full and fine;
And your vast cisterns overflow
With pure and sweetest wine.
Let all admire that silver tongue
That court and forum sways,
And o'er your doors the palm be hung
To tell the victor's praise;
But let the Saturnalia bring
A little holiday,
Then hear these merry songs I sing
And polish them I pray —

On Tuscan acorns fed, in monster size
He yields to Meleager's boar alone,
Now pierced by Dexter's glittering spear he lies
In bulk that makes my humble kitchen groan;
Hearth gods, grow fat, in unctuous vapour bask,
Strip a whole hill for festal logs — but hold!
How vast a mound of spice the cook will ask
And for a crafty sauce good wine and old;
Return, thou costly brute; my fire aghast
Shrinks from thy bulk: 'Tis cheaper far to fast .

Go seek my friend and, if his cares permit,
Give him this book whatever be its worth;
Some it must have, for he hath part in it,
And let his taste refine my simpler mirth;
Go then my verse and, if he smile on thee,
Seek that protection I have known of yore;
Such passion for my merry muse hath he
That I myself could hardly love her more.
Needst thou a patron mighty to defend
If spite assail thee? Go and seek my friend.

Thou would'st embroil me with my Juvenal!
What wilt not dare? A tongue so treacherous
Might sour the love of Pylades to gall,
Or sever Theseus from Pirithous,
Pollux from Castor, rob Amphinomus
Or Agamemnon of a brother's heart;
No fouler thing can be, — I curse thee thus,
Mayst thou continue even what thou art!

Though but a worthless log it seem to be,
Of old through seas, unknown before, it steered;
Unscathed it passed the Clashing Rocks, nor feared
The deadlier perils of the Scythian Sea,
And now, though Time, the Victor, vanquish thee,
Brave plank, what stately ship is so revered?