Page:Satires, Epistles, Art of Poetry of Horace - Coningsby (1874).djvu/197

 Kind to his wife, indulgent to his slave, He'd find a bottle sweated and not rave; He'd scorn to run his head against a wall; Show him a pit, and he'd avoid the fall. At last, when quarts of hellebore drunk neat, Thanks to his kin, had wrought a cure complete, Brought to himself again, "Good friends," quoth he, "Call you this saving? why, 'tis murdering me; Your stupid zeal has spoilt my golden days, And robbed me of a most delicious craze."
 * Wise men betimes will bid adieu to toys,

And give up idle games to idle boys; Not now to string the Latian lyre, but learn The harmony of life, is my concern. So, when I commune with myself, I state In words like these my side in the debate: "If no amount of water quenched your thirst, You'd tell the doctor, not go on and burst: Experience shows you, as your riches swell Your wants increase; have you no friend to tell? A healing simple for a wound you try; It does no good; you put the simple by: You're told that silly folk whom heaven may bless With ample means get rid of silliness; You test it, find 'tis not the case with you: Then why not change your Mentor for a new? Did riches make you wiser, set you free From idle fear, insane cupidity, You'd blush, and rightly too, if earth contained Another man more fond of what he gained.