Page:Satires, Epistles, Art of Poetry of Horace - Coningsby (1874).djvu/112

 Nor Autumn, friend to graveyards, works me woe. Sire of the morning (do I call thee right, Or hear'st thou Janus' name with more delight?) Who introducest, so the gods ordain, Life's various tasks, inaugurate my strain. At Rome to bail I'm summoned. "Do your part," Thou bidd'st me; "quick, lest others get the start." So, whether Boreas roars, or winter's snow Clips short the day, to court I needs must go. I give the fatal pledge, distinct and loud, Then pushing, struggling, battle with the crowd. "Now, madman!" clamours some one, not without A threat or two, "just mind what you're about: What? you must knock down all that's in your way, Because you're posting to Mæcenas, eh?" This pleases me, I own; but when I get To black Esquiliæ, trouble waits me yet: For other people's matters in a swarm Buzz round my head and take my ears by storm. "Sir, Roscius would be glad if you'd arrange By eight a. m. to be with him on 'Change." "Quintus, the scribes entreat you to attend A meeting of importance, as their friend." "Just get Mæcenas' seal attached to these." "I'll try." "O, you can do it, if you please." Seven years, or rather eight, have well-nigh passed Since with Mæcenas' friends I first was classed, To this extent, that, driving through the street,