Page:Satires, Epistles, Art of Poetry of Horace - Coningsby (1874).djvu/118

 At Rome you hanker for your country home; Once in the country, there's no place like Rome. If not asked out to supper, then you bless The stars that let you eat your quiet mess, Vow that engagements are mere clogs, and think You're happy that you've no one's wine to drink. But should Mæcenas, somewhat late, invite His favourite bard to come by candle-light, "Bring me the oil this instant! is there none Hears me?" you scream, and in a trice are gone: While Milvius and his brother beasts of prey, With curses best not quoted, walk away. Yet what says Milvius? "Honest truth to tell, I turn my nose up at a kitchen's smell; I'm guided by my stomach; call me weak, Coward, tavern-spunger, still by book you'll speak. But who are you to treat me to your raps? You're just as bad as I, nay worse perhaps, Though you've a cloak of decent words, forsooth, To throw at pleasure o'er the ugly truth." What if at last a greater fool you're found Than I, the slave you bought for twenty pound? Nay, nay, don't scare me with that threatening eye: Unclench your fist and lay your anger by, While I retail the lessons which of late The porter taught me at Crispinus' gate.
 * You're no adulterer:—nor a thief am I,

When I see plate and wisely pass it by: But take away the danger, in a trice Nature unbridled plunges into vice.