To Maecenas Quinque Dies Tibi Pollicitus lyrics

To Maecenas

Quinque Dies Tibi Pollicitus

Five days I told you at my farm I'd stay,
And lo! the whole of August I'm away.
Well, but, Maecenas, yon would have me live,
And, were I sick, my absence you'd forgive;
So let me crave indulgence for the fear
Of falling ill at this bad time of year,
When, thanks to early figs and sultry heat,
The undertaker figures with his suite,
When fathers all and fond mammas grow pale
At what may happen to their young heirs male,
And courts and levees, town-bred mortals' ills,
Bring fevers on, and break the seals of wills.
When winter strews the Alban fields with snow,
Down to the sea your chilly bard will go,
There keep the house and study at his ease,
All huddled up together, nose and knees:
With the first swallow, if you'll have him then,
He'll come, dear friend, and visit you again.

Not like the coarse Calabrian boor, who pressed
His store of pears upon a sated guest,
Have you bestowed your favours. "Eat them, pray."
"I've done." "Then carry all you please away."
"I thank you, no." "Your boys won't like you less
For taking home a sack of them, I guess."
"I could not thank you more if I took all."
"Ah well, if you won't eat them, the pigs shall."
'Tis silly prodigality, to throw
Those gifts broadcast whose value you don't know:
Such tillage yields ingratitude, and will,
While human nature is the soil you till.
A wise good man has ears for merit's claim,
Yet does not reckon brass and gold the same.
I also will "assume desert," and prove
I value him whose bounty speaks his love.

If you would keep me always, give me back
My sturdy sides, my clustering locks of black,
My pleasant voice and laugh, the tears I shed
That night when Cinara from the table fled.
A poor pinched field-mouse chanced to make its way
Through a small rent in a wheat-sack one day,
And, having gorged and stuffed, essayed in vain
To squeeze its body through the hole again:
"Ah!" cried a weasel, "wait till you get thin;
Then, if you will, creep out as you crept in."
Well, if to me the story folks apply,
I give up all I've got without a sigh:
Not mine to cram down guinea-fowls, and then
Heap praises on the sleep of labouring men;
Give me a country life and leave me free,
I would not choose the wealth of Araby.

I've called you Father, praised your royal grace
Behind your back as well as to your face;
You've owned I have a conscience: try me now
If I can quit your gifts with cheerful brow.
That was a prudent answer which, we're told,
The son of wise Ulysses made of old:
"Our Ithaca is scarce the place for steeds;
It has no level plains, no grassy meads:
Atrides, if you'll let me, I'll decline
A gift that better meets your wants than mine."
Small things become small folks: imperial Rome
Is all too large, too bustling for a home;
The empty heights of Tibur, or the bay
Of soft Tarentum, more are in my way.
Philip, the famous counsel, years ago,
Was moving home at two, sedate and slow,
Old, and fatigued with pleading at the bar,
And grumbling that he lived away so far,
When suddenly he chanced his eye to drop
On a spruce personage in a barber's shop,
Who in the shopman's absence lounged at ease,
Paring his nails as calmly as you please.
"Demetrius"—so was called the slave he kept
To do his errands, a well-trained adept—
"Find out about that man for me; enquire
His name and rank, his patron or his sire."
He soon brings word that Mena is the name,
An auction-crier, poor, but without blame,
One who can work or idle, get or spend,
Who loves his home and likes to see a friend,
Enjoys the circus, and when work's got through,
Hies to the field, and does as others do.
"I'll hear the details from himself: go say
I'll thank him if he'll sup with me to-day."
Mena can scarce believe it; posed and mum
He ponders; then, with thanks, declines to come.
"What? does he dare to say me nay?" "Just so;
Be it reserve or disrespect, 'tis no."
Philip next morn finds Mena at a sale
"Where odds and ends are going by retail,
And greets him first. He, stammeringly profuse,
Alleges ties of business in excuse
For not by day-break knocking at his door,
And last, for not observing him before.
"Well, bygones shall be bygones, if so be
You'll come this afternoon and sup with me."
"I'm at your service." "Then 'twixt four and five
You'll come: now go, and do your best to thrive."
He's there in time; what comes into his head
He chatters, right or wrong; then off to bed.
So, when he'd learnt to nibble at the bait,
At levee early and at supper late,
One holiday he's bidden to come down
With Philip to his villa out of town.
Astride on horseback, both, he vows, are rare,
The Sabine country and the Sabine air.
Philip looks on and chuckles, his one aim
To get a laugh by keeping up the game,
Lends him seven hundred, gives him out of hand
Seven more, and leads him on to buy some land.
'Tis bought: to make a lengthy tale concise,
The man becomes a clown who once was nice,
Talks all of elms and vineyards, ploughs and soil,
And ages fast with struggling and sheer toil;
Till, when his sheep are stolen, his bullock drops,
His goats die off, a blight destroys his crops,
One night he takes a waggon-horse, and sore
With all his losses, rides to Philip's door.
Philip perceives him squalid and unshorn,
And cries, "Why, Mena! surely you look worn;
You work too hard." "Nay, call me wretch," says he,
"Good patron; 'tis the only name for me.
So now, by all that's binding among men,
I beg you, give me my old life again."

He that finds out he's changed his lot for worse,
Let him betimes the untoward choice reverse:
For still, when all is said, the rule stands fast,
That each man's shoe be made on his own last.