"My prayers with this I used to charge,-- A piece of land not very large, Wherein there should a garden be, A clear spring flowing ceaselessly, And where, to crown the whole, there should A patch be found of growing wood. All this, and more, the gods have sent, And I am heartily content. Oh son of Maia, that I may These bounties keep is all I pray. If ne'er by craft or base design I've swelled what little store is mine, Nor mean, it ever shall be wrecked By profligacy or neglect; If never from my lips a word Shall drop of wishes so absurd As,--'Had I but that little nook Next to my land, that spoils its look! Or--'Would some lucky chance unfold A crock to me of hidden gold, As to the man whom Hercules Enriched and settled at his ease, Who,--with, the treasure he had found, Bought for himself the very ground Which he before for hire had tilled!' If I with gratitude am filled For what I have--by this I dare Adjure you to fulfil my prayer, That you with fatness will endow My little herd of cattle now, And all things else their lord may own, Except his sorry wits alone, And be, as heretofore, my chief Protector, guardian, and relief! So, when from town and all its ills I to my perch among the hills Retreat, what better theme to choose Than satire for my homely Muse? No fell ambition wastes me there, No, nor the south wind's leaden air, Nor Autumn's pestilential breath, With victims feeding hungry death. Sire of the morn, or if more dear The name of Janus to thine ear, Through whom whate'er by man is done, From life's first dawning, is begun (So willed the gods for man's estate), Do thou my verse initiate! At Rome you hurry me away To bail my friend; 'Quick, no delay, Or some one--could worse luck befall you?-- Will in the kindly task forestall you.' So go I must, although the wind Is north and killingly unkind, Or snow, in thickly-falling flakes, The wintry day more wintry makes. And when, articulate and clear, I've spoken what may cost me dear, Elbowing the crowd that round me close, I'm sure to crush somebody's toes. 'I say, where are you pushing to? What would you have, you madman, you?' So flies he at poor me, 'tis odds, And curses me by all his gods. 'You think that you, now, I daresay, May push whatever stops your way, When you are to Maecenas bound!' Sweet, sweet, as honey is the sound, I won't deny, of that last speech, But then no sooner do I reach The dusky Esquiline, than straight Buzz, buzz around me runs the prate Of people pestering me with cares, All about other men's affairs. 'To-morrow, Roscius bade me state, He trusts you'll be in court by eight!' 'The scriveners, worthy Quintus, pray, You'll not forget they meet to-day, Upon a point both grave and new, One touching the whole body, too.' 'Do get Maecenas, do, to sign This application here of mine!'