Page:Satires, Epistles, Art of Poetry of Horace - Coningsby (1874).djvu/31

 THE SATIRES OF HORACE

BOOK I.

SATIRE I.

Qui fit, Mæcenas. OW comes it, say, Mæcenas, if you can, That none will live like a contented man Where choice or chance directs, but each must praise The folk who pass through life by other ways? "Those lucky merchants!" cries the soldier stout, When years of toil have well-nigh worn him out: What says the merchant, tossing o'er the brine? "Yon soldier's lot is happier, sure, than mine: One short, sharp shock, and presto! all is done: Death in an instant comes, or victory's won." The lawyer lauds the farmer, when a knock Disturbs his sleep at crowing of the cock: The farmer, dragged to town on business, swears That only citizens are free from cares.