Page:Satires, Epistles, Art of Poetry of Horace - Coningsby (1874).djvu/162

132 And swear, as Bestius might, your gourmand knaves Should have their stomachs branded like a slave's. But give the brute a piece of daintier prey, When all was done, he'd smack his lips and say, "In faith I cannot wonder, when I hear Of folks who waste a fortune on good cheer, For there's no treat in nature more divine Than a fat thrush or a big paunch of swine." I'm just his double: when my purse is lean I hug myself, and praise the golden mean, Stout when not tempted; but suppose some day A special titbit comes into my way, I vow man's happiness is ne'er complete Till based on a substantial country seat.



BOUT my farm, dear Quinctius; you would know What sort of produce for its lord 'twill grow; Plough-land is it, or meadow-land, or soil For apples, vine-clad elms, or olive oil? So (but you'll think me garrulous) I'll write A full description of its form and site.