human
Live to your means --'tis wisdom's voice you hear-- And freely grind the produce of the year: What scruples check you? Ply the hoe and spade, 55 And lo! another crop is in the blade. True; but the claims of duty caution crave. A friend, scarce rescued from the Ionian wave, Grasps a projecting rock, while in the deep His treasures, with his prayers, unheeded sleep: 60 I see him stretched, desponding, on the ground. His tutelary gods all wrecked around, His bark dispersed in fragments o'er the tide, And sea-mews sporting on the ruins wide. Sell, then, a pittance ('tis my prompt advice) 65 Of this your land, and send your friend the price; Lest, with a pictured storm, forlorn and poor, He ask cheap charity from door to door.
gpt
But then, my angry heir, displeased to find His prospects lessened by an act so kind, 70 May slight my obsequies; and, in return, Give my cold ashes to a scentless urn; Reckless what vapid drugs he flings thereon, Adulterate cassia, or dead cinnamon!-- Can I (bethink in time) my means impair, 75 And with impunity provoke my heir? --Here Bestius rails--
human
A plague on Greece, he cries,
gpt
And all her pedants!--there the evil lies; For since their mawkish, their enervate lore, With dates and pepper, cursed our luckless shore, 80 Luxury has tainted all; and plowmen spoil Their wholesome barley-broth with luscious oil. Heavens! can you stretch (to fears like these a slave) Your fond solicitude beyond the grave? Away!--But thou, my heir, whoe'er thou art, 85 Step from the crowd, and let us talk apart. Hearest thou the news? Cæsar has won the day (So, from the camp, his laureled missives say), And Germany is ours! The city wakes, And from her altars the cold ashes shakes.-- 90 Lo! from the imperial spoils, Cæsonia brings Arms, and the martial robes of conquered kings, To deck the temples; while, on either hand, Chariots of war and bulky captives stand In long array. I, too, my joy to prove, 95 Will to the emperor's Genius, and to Jove, Devote, in gratitude for deeds so rare, Two hundred well-matched fencers, pair by pair. Who blames--who ventures to forbid me? You? Woe to your future prospects! if you do. 100 --And, sir, not this alone; for I have vowed A supplemental largess to the crowd, Of corn and oil. What! muttering still? draw near, And speak aloud, for once, that I may hear.
human
My means are not so low that I should care 105 For that poor pittance you may leave your heir. Just as you please: but were I, sir, bereft Of all my kin; no aunt, no uncle left; No nephew, niece; were all my cousins gone, And all my cousins' cousins, every one, 110 Aricia soon some Manius would supply, Well pleased to take that
gpt
when I die.
human
Manius! a beggar of the first degree, A son of earth, your heir! Nay, question me, Ask who my grandsire's sire? I know not well, 115 And yet, on recollection, I might tell; But urge me one step farther--I am mute: A son of earth, like Manius, past dispute. Thus his descent and mine are equal proved, And we at last are cousins, though removed. 120 But why should you, who still before me run, Require my torch ere yet the race be won? Think me your Mercury: Lo! here I stand, As painters represent him, purse in hand: Will you, or not, the proffered boon receive, 125 And take, with thankfulness, whate'er I leave? Something, you murmur, of the heap is spent. True: as occasion called it freely went; In life 'twas mine: but death your chance secures, And what remains, or more or less, is yours. 130 Of Tadius' legacy no questions raise, Nor turn upon me with a grandsire-phrase,
gpt
Live on the interest of your fortune, boy; To touch the principal is to destroy.
human
What, after all, may I expect to have?