"Here, reader, in place of the epilogue, was meant to thee an apology from the author, with his reasons for the publishing of this book: but, since he is no less restrained than thou deprived of it by authority, he prays thee to think charitably of what thou hast read. till thou mayest hear him speak what he hath written."
HORACE AND TREBATIUS. A DIALOGUE. Sat. 1. Lib. 2.
Hor. There are to whom I seem excessive sour, And past a satire's law t' extend my power: Others, that think whatever I have writ Wants pith and matter to eternise it; And that they could, in one day's light, disclose A thousand verses, such as I compose. What shall I do, Trebatius? say.
Hor. And shall my muse admit no more increase?
Hor. An ill death let me die, If 'twere not best; but sleep avoids mine eye, And I use these, lest nights should tedious seem.
Treb. Rather, contend to sleep, and live like them, That, holding golden sleep in special price, Rubb'd with sweet oils, swim silver Tyber thrice, And every even with neat wine steeped be: Or, if such love of writing ravish thee, Then dare to sing unconquer'd Caesar's deeds; Who cheers such actions with abundant meeds.
Hor. That, father, I desire; but, when I try, I feel defects in every faculty: Nor is't a labour fit for every pen, To paint the horrid troops of armed men, The lances burst, in Gallia's slaughter'd forces; Or wounded Parthians, tumbled from their horses: Great Caesar's wars cannot be fought with words.
Treb. Yet, what his virtue in his peace affords, His fortitude and justice thou canst shew As wise Lucilius honour'd Scipio.
Hor. Of that, my powers shall suffer no neglect, When such slight labours may aspire respect: But, if I watch not a most chosen time, The humble words of Flaccus cannot climb Th' attentive ear of Caesar; nor must I With less observance shun gross flattery: For he, reposed safe in his own merit, Spurns back the gloses of a fawning spirit.
Treb. But how much better would such accents sound Than with a sad and serious verse to wound Pantolabus, railing in his saucy jests, Or Nomentanus spent in riotous feasts? In satires, each man, though untouch'd, complains As he were hurt; and hates such biting strains.
Hor. What shall I do? Milonius shakes his heels In ceaseless dances, when his brain once feels The stirring fervour of the wine ascend; And that his eyes false numbers apprehend. Castor his horse, Pollux loves handy-fights; A thousand heads, a thousand choice delights. My pleasure is in feet my words to close, As, both our better, old Lucilius does: He, as his trusty friends, his books did trust With all his secrets; nor, in things unjust, Or actions lawful, ran to other men: So that the old man's life described, was seen As in a votive table in his lines: And to his steps my genius inclines; Lucanian, or Apulian, I know not whether, For the Venusian colony ploughs either; Sent thither, when the Sabines were forced thence, As old Fame sings, to give the place defence 'Gainst such as, seeing it empty, might make road Upon the empire; or there fix abode: Whether the Apulian borderer it were, Or the Lucanian violence they fear.--- But this my style no living man shall touch, If first I be not forced by base reproach; But like a sheathed sword it shall defend My innocent life; for why should I contend To draw it out, when no malicious thief Robs my good name, the treasure of my life? O Jupiter, let it with rust be eaten, Before it touch, or insolently threaten The life of any with the least disease; So much I love, and woo a general peace. But, he that wrongs me, better, I proclaim, He never had assay'd to touch my fame. For he shall weep, and walk with every tongue Throughout the city, infamously sung. Servius the praetor threats the laws, and urn, If any at his deeds repine or spurn; The witch Canidia, that Albutius got, Denounceth witchcraft, where she loveth not; Thurius the judge, doth thunder worlds of ill, To such as strive with his judicial will. All men affright their foes in what they may, Nature commands it, and men must obey. Observe with me: The wolf his tooth doth use, The bull his horn; and who doth this infuse, But nature? There's luxurious Scaeva; trust His long-lived mother with him; his so just And scrupulous right-hand no mischief will; No more than with his heel a wolf will kill, Or ox with jaw: marry, let him alone With temper'd poison to remove the croan. But briefly, if to age I destined be, Or that quick death's black wings environ me; If rich, or poor; at Rome; or fate command I shall be banished to some other land; What hue soever my whole state shall bear, I will write satires still, in spite of fear.