Page:Satires, Epistles, Art of Poetry of Horace - Coningsby (1874).djvu/74

 Taking good care, as night draws on, to steep Your brain in liquor: then you'll have your sleep. Or, if you still have such an itch to write, Sing of some moving incident of fight; Sing of great Cæsar's victories: a bard Who works at that is sure to win reward.
 * H. Would that I could, my worthy sire! but skill

And vigour lack, how great soe'er the will. Not every one can paint in epic strain The lances bristling on the embattled plain, Tell how the Gauls by broken javelins bleed, Or sing the Parthian tumbling from his steed.
 * T. But you can draw him just and brave, you know,

As sage Lucilius did for Scipio.
 * H. Trust me for that: my devoir I will pay,

Whene'er occasion comes to point the way. Save at fit times, no words of mine can find A way through Cæsar's ear to Cæsar's mind: A mettled horse, if awkwardly you stroke, Kicks out on all sides, and your leg is broke.
 * T. Better do this than gall with keen lampoon

Cassius the rake and Mænius the buffoon, When each one, though with withers yet unwrung, Fears for himself, and hates your bitter tongue.
 * H. What shall I do? Milonius, when the wine

Mounts to his head, and doubled lustres shine, Falls dancing; horses are what Castor loves; His twin yolk-fellow glories in the gloves: