Page:Satires, Epistles, Art of Poetry of Horace - Coningsby (1874).djvu/146


 * I've called you Father, praised your royal grace

Behind your back as well as to your face; You've owned I have a conscience: try me now If I can quit your gifts with cheerful brow. That was a prudent answer which, we're told, The son of wise Ulysses made of old: "Our Ithaca is scarce the place for steeds; It has no level plains, no grassy meads: Atrides, if you'll let me, I'll decline A gift that better meets your wants than mine." Small things become small folks: imperial Rome Is all too large, too bustling for a home; The empty heights of Tibur, or the bay Of soft Tarentum, more are in my way.
 * Philip, the famous counsel, years ago,

Was moving home at two, sedate and slow, Old, and fatigued with pleading at the bar, And grumbling that he lived away so far, When suddenly he chanced his eye to drop On a spruce personage in a barber's shop, Who in the shopman's absence lounged at ease, Paring his nails as calmly as you please. "Demetrius"—so was called the slave he kept To do his errands, a well-trained adept— "Find out about that man for me; enquire His name and rank, his patron or his sire." He soon brings word that Mena is the name, An auction-crier, poor, but without blame, One who can work or idle, get or spend, Who loves his home and likes to see a friend,