Page:Satires, Epistles, Art of Poetry of Horace - Coningsby (1874).djvu/113

 He'd stop his car and offer me a seat, Or make such chance remarks as "What's o'clock?" "Will Syria's champion beat the Thracian cock?" "These morning frosts are apt to be severe;" Just chit-chat, suited to a leaky ear. Since that auspicious date, each day and hour Has placed me more and more in envy's power: "He joined his play, sat next him at the games: A child of Fortune!" all the world exclaims. From the high rostra a report comes down, And like a chilly fog, pervades the town: Each man I meet accosts me "Is it so? You live so near the gods, you're sure to know: That news about the Dacians? have you heard No secret tidings?" "Not a single word." "O yes! you love to banter us poor folk." "Nay, if I've heard a tittle, may I choke!" "Will Cæsar grant his veterans their estates In Italy, or t'other side of the straits?" I swear that I know nothing, and am dumb: They think me deep, miraculously mum. And so my day between my fingers slips, While fond regrets keep rising to my lips: O my dear homestead in the country! when Shall I behold your pleasant face again; And, studying now, now dozing and at ease, Imbibe forgetfulness of all this tease? O when, Pythagoras, shall thy brother bean, With pork and cabbage, on my board be seen? O happy nights and suppers half divine,