English

If I were called to diverse feasts above,
This way by Caesar and that way by Jove,
Though heaven were near, the palace far away,
These were the words that to the gods I'ld say —
" Seek some one else to be the Thunderer's guest.
I have my Jove on earth: je suis, je reste ."

Your guests must write you rhymes
Before they may fall to:
It's very hard sometimes —
" Well, any stuff will do."

When Silius, twofold lord of Latin tongue,
The fate untimely of Severus sung,
I to the Muses made my mournful cry
And thus did great Apollo give reply —
" I wept for Linus, and Calliopi
Who stands hard by, has borne like grief with me.
Yea, cruel Fate has ventured e'en to move
With bitter grief the heart of either Jove,
The Thunderer in his Tarpeian shrine
And the great dweller on the Palatine.
Since then e'en they to fate relentless bow,
Forbear to charge the gods with envy now."

While for our lord with loyalty unstained
The rage of lawless foemen you restrained,
I who your love have e'er my glory made,
Was sporting safely in the Muses' shade.
But when to Rhaetia my poems came.
And the far north was busy with my name,
Never did you our friendship then deny
But " He's my own, my comrade," oft would cry.
Soon may the author read to your kind ears
All you have heard about in these six years.

An astrologer said that you would not last long,
And I really imagine he was not far wrong,
For, wishing to leave not one penny behind,
In a year you have thrown your estate to the wind;
A very nice fortune you've managed to spend,
So I think we may say that you've had a quick end.

Poor John in his youth was so very sharp-set,
He married a grand dame for what he could get.
To-day he discovers there's plenty to do;
For he has both to feed her and fondle her too.

The servants once who stood at Caesar's board
In the proud palace were by Rome abhorred.
But now your men to all, Sire, are so dear
That our own households are our second care;
So deferential are they and so kind,
Such modest calm in every face we find.
Each page takes pattern by his master's ways
And not his own, but Caesar's, mood displays.

Behold , the young Camonius you see
As when he sported in his infancy.
In twenty years his face had manlier grown
And his fair cheeks were shadowed by a down
Whose darkness just had felt the barber's knife,
When jealous fate cut short his thin-spun life.
Far, far away he died; and to his sire
Only came ashes from the funeral pyre.
So while this picture gives his childish face,
A later image in these lines I trace.

With your teeth you were wont on old leather to bite,
And stretch out a sole that was mud-rotten quite,
But now you have got your dead patron's estate,
Who did not possess e'en a garret of late,
And in his bright crystal your hot drink enjoy
While you wanton at ease with his favourite boy.
Oh what a mistake that my fond parents taught
Me my letters, and tutors and schoolmasters sought!
If these are the profits from mending old shoes,
Good-bye books and pens, and adieu to the Muse.

An African lion has partner become
With a jolly old ram, and they live in one home.
You may see them yourself, for together they're tied
And like trusty friends take their meals side by side.
They don't feed on acorns, nor does grass suffice;
A tender young lamb seems to both very nice.
The Nemean terror and Helli's old ram
Compared with these two were a fraud and a sham.
If a place in the stars should to creatures be given,
Our goat and our lion are worthy of heaven.