He lives on little, and is blest, On whose plain board the bright Salt-cellar shines, which was his sire's delight, Nor terrors, nor cupidity's unrest, Disturb his slumbers light.
Why should we still project and plan, We creatures of an hour? Why fly from clime to clime, new regions scour? Where is the exile, who, since time began, To fly from self had power?
Fell care climbs brazen galley's sides; Nor troops of horse can fly Her foot, which than the stag's is swifter, ay, Swifter than Eurus when he madly rides The clouds along the sky.
Careless what lies beyond to know, And turning to the best, The present, meet life's bitters with a jest, And smile them down; since nothing here below Is altogether blest.
In manhood's prime Achilles died, Tithonus by the slow Decay of age was wasted to a show, And Time may what it hath to thee denied On me perchance bestow.
To me a farm of modest size, And slender vein of song, Such as in Greece flowed vigorous and strong, Kind fate hath given, and spirit to despise The base, malignant throng.
AN INVITATION TO DINE WRITTEN BY HORACE TO VIRGIL
Yes, a small box of nard from the stores of Sulpicius[2] A cask shall elicit, of potency rare To endow with fresh hopes, dewy-bright and delicious, And wash from our hearts every cobweb of care.
If you'd dip in such joys, come--the better the quicker!-- But remember the fee--for it suits not my ends, To let you make havoc, scot-free, 'with my liquor, As though I were one of your heavy-pursed friends.
To the winds with base lucre and pale melancholy!-- In the flames of the pyre these, alas! will be vain, Mix your sage ruminations with glimpses of folly,-- 'Tis delightful at times to be somewhat insane.
[Footnote 2: Virgil must bring some rare perfume in exchange for the rich wine, since Horace thus playfully conditions his invitation.]
Receive, dear friends, the truths I teach, So shalt thou live beyond the reach Of adverse Fortune's power; Not always tempt the distant deep, Nor always timorously creep Along the treacherous shore.
He that holds fast the golden mean And lives contentedly between The little and the great, Feels not the wants that pinch the poor, Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door, Imbittering all his state.