The dapper cit becomes a farmer bluff, Talks drains and subsoils, ever on the strain Grows lean, and ages with the lust of gain. But when his sheep are stolen, when murrains smite His goats, and his best crops are killed with blight, When at the plough his oxen drop down dead, Stung with his losses, up one night from bed He springs, and on a cart-horse makes his way, All wrath, to Philip's house, by break of day. "How's this?" cries Philip, seeing him unshorn And shabby. "Why, Vulteius, you look worn. You work, methinks, too long upon the stretch." "Oh, that's not it, my patron. Call me wretch! That is the only fitting name for me. Oh, by thy Genius, by the gods that be Thy hearth's protectors, I beseech, implore, Give me, oh, give me back my life of yore!" If for the worse you find you've changed your place, Pause not to think, but straight your steps retrace. In every state the maxim still is true, On your own last take care to fit your shoe! [1] The street where he lived, or, as we should say, "Ship Street." The name was due probably to the circumstance of models of ships being set up in it. CHAPTER X. DELICACY OF HORACE'S HEALTH.--HIS CHEERFULNESS.--LOVE OF BOOKS.--HIS PHILOSOPHY PRACTICAL.--EPISTLE TO AUGUSTUS.--DEATH. Horace had probably passed forty when the Epistle just quoted was written. Describing himself at forty-four (Epistles, I. 20), he says he was "prematurely grey,"--his hair, as we have just seen, having been originally black,--adding that he is "In person small, one to whom warmth is life, In temper hasty, yet averse from strife." His health demanded constant care; and we find him writing (Epistles, I. 15) to a friend, to ask what sort of climate and people are to be found at Velia and Salernum,--the one a town of Lucania, the other of Campania,--as he has been ordered by his doctor to give up his favourite watering-place, Baiae, as too relaxing. This doctor was Antonius Musa, a great apostle of the cold-water cure, by which he had saved the life of Augustus when in extreme danger. The remedy instantly became fashionable, and continued so until the Emperor's nephew, the young Marcellus, died under the treatment. Horace's inquiries are just such as a valetudinarian fond of his comforts would be likely to make:-- "Which place is best supplied with corn, d'ye think? Have they rain-water or fresh springs to drink? Their wines I care not for, when at my farm I can drink any sort without much harm; But at the sea I need a generous kind To warm my veins, and pass into my mind, Enrich me with new hopes, choice words supply, And make me comely in a lady's eye. Which tract is best for game? on which sea-coast Urchins and other fish abound the most? That so, when I return, my friends may see A sleek Phaeacian [1] come to life in me: These things you needs must tell me, Vala dear, And I no less must act on what I hear." (C.)