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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
EPISTLE 1, 10. TO FUSCUS ARISTUS, by QUINTUS HORATIUS FLACCUS Poet's Biography First Line: Health from the lover of the country, me Last Line: The horse doth with the horseman run away. Alternate Author Name(s): Horace Subject(s): Friendship; Relationships; Wealth; Riches; Fortunes | |||
HEALTH from the lover of the country, me, Health to the lover of the city, thee. A difference in our souls this only proves; In all things else, we pair like married doves. But the warm nest and crowded dove-house thou Dost like: I loosely fly from bough to bough, And rivers drink, and all the shining day Upon fair trees or mossy rocks I play; In fine, I live and reign, when I retire From all that you equal with heaven admire; Like one at last from the priest's service fled, Loathing the honied cakes, I long for bread. Would I a house for happiness erect; Nature alone should be the architect; She'd build it more convenient than great, And doubtless in the country choose her seat: Is there a place doth better helps supply Against the wounds of winter's cruelty? Is there an aid that gentlier does assuage The mad celestial dog's, or lion's rage? Is it not there that sleep (and only there) Nor noise without, nor cares within does fear? Does art through pipes a purer water bring Than that which Nature strains into a spring? Can all your tap'stries, or your pictures, show More beauties than in herbs and flowers do grow? Fountains and trees our wearied pride do please, Ev'n in the midst of gilded palaces; And in your towns that prospect gives delight Which opens round the country to our sight. Men to the good from which they rashly fly, Return at last; and their wild luxury Does but in vain with those true joys contend, Which Nature did to mankind recommend. The man who changes gold for burnish'd brass, Or small right gems for larger ones of glass, Is not at length more certain to be made Ridiculous, and wretched by the trade, Than he who sells a solid good to buy The painted goods of pride and vanity. If thou be wise, no glorious fortune choose, Which 'tis but pain to keep, yet grief to lose; For, when we place ev'n trifles in the heart, With trifles, too, unwillingly we part. An humble roof, plain bed, and homely board, More clear untainted pleasures do afford Than all the tumult of vain greatness brings To kings, or to the favorites of kings. The horned deer by Nature arm'd so well, Did with the horse in common pasture dwell; And when they fought, the field it always won; Till the ambitious horse begg'd help of man, And took the bridle, and thenceforth did reign Bravely alone, as lord of all the plain. But never after could he the rider get From off his back, or from his mouth the bit. So they, who poverty too much do fear, T' avoid that weight, a greater burden bear; That they might power above their equals have, To cruel masters they themselves enslave. For gold, their liberty exchang'd we see, That fairest flower which crowns humanity. And all this mischief does upon them light, Only, because they know not how, aright, That great, but secret, happiness to prize, That's laid up in a little, for the wise: That is the best and easiest estate Which to a man sits close, but not too straight; 'Tis like a shoe, it pinches and it burns, Too narrow; and too large, it overturns. My dearest friend! stop thy desires at last, And cheerfully enjoy the wealth thou hast: And, if me seeking still for more you see, Chide and reproach, despise and laugh at me. Money was made, not to command our will, But all our lawful pleasures to fulfill: Shame! woe to us, if we our wealth obey: The horse doth with the horseman run away. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ALL LIFE IN A LIFE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS FOUR POEMS ABOUT JAMAICA: 3. A HAIRPIN TURN ABOVE READING, JAMAICA by WILLIAM MATTHEWS IMAGINE YOURSELF by EVE MERRIAM THE PROPHET by LUCILLE CLIFTON I AM FIFTY-TWO YEARS OLD' by KENNETH REXROTH LAST VISIT TO THE SWIMMING POOL SOVIETS by KENNETH REXROTH PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR AS A YOUNG ANARCHIST by KENNETH REXROTH |
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