Page:Satires, Epistles, Art of Poetry of Horace - Coningsby (1874).djvu/194

 Aye, and besides, my friends who'd have me chant Are not agreed upon the thing they want: You like an ode; for epodes others cry, While some love satire spiced and seasoned high. Three guests, I find, for different dishes call, And how's one host to satisfy them all? I bring your neighbour what he asks, you glower: Obliging you, I turn two stomachs sour.
 * Think too of Rome: can I write verses here,

Where there's so much to tease and interfere? One wants me for his surety; one, still worse, Bids me leave work to hear him just rehearse; One's ill on Aventine, the farthest end, One on Quirinal; both must see their friend. Observe the distance. "What of that?" you say, "The streets are clear; make verses by the way." There goes a builder's gang, all haste and steam; Yon crane lifts granite, or perhaps a beam; Waggons and funerals jostle; a mad dog Ran by just now; that splash was from a hog: Go now, abstract yourself from outward things, And "hearken what the inner spirit sings." Bards fly from town and haunt the wood and glade; Bacchus, their chief, likes sleeping in the shade; And how should I, with noises all about, Tread where they tread and make their footprints out? Take idle Athens now; a wit who's spent Seven years in studying there, on books intent, Turns out as stupid as a stone, and shakes