| SERMONUM - I.3 | SATIRES - I.3 | ||||||||||
| Horace (Q. Horatius Flaccus) | tr. Niall Rudd | ||||||||||
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Omnibus hoc vitium est cantoribus, inter amicos ut numquam inducant animum cantare rogati, injussi nunquam desistant. Sardus habebat ille Tigellius hoc. Caesar, qui cogere posset, si peteret per amicitiam patris atque suam, non quidquam proficeret ; si collibuisset, ab ovo usque ad mala citaret, 'io Bacche!' modo summa voce, modo hac, resonat qua e chordis quattuor ima. nil aequale homini fuit illi; saepe velut qui currebat fugiens hostem, persaepe velut qui Iunonis sacra ferret: habebat saepe ducentos, saepe decem servos; modo reges atque tetrarchas, omnia magna, loquens; modo 'sit mihi mensa
quamvis crassa queat.' deciens centena dedisses huic parco paucis contento, quinque diebus nil erat in loculis. noctes vigilabat ad ipsum mane, diem totum stertebat; nil fuit umquam sic impar sibi. nunc aliquis dicat mihi, 'quid tu? nullane habes vitia?' immo alia et fortasse minora. Maenius absentem Novium cum carperet, 'heus tu,' quidam ait, ' ignoras te? an ut ignotum dare nobis verba putas?' 'egomet mi ignosco,' Maenius inquit. stultus et improbus hic amor est dignusque notari. ............ ............ |
Singers all have the same fault. When asked to perform for their friends they never will; when no one asks them they never stop. Tigellius, that typical Sard, had the same habit. If Caesar, who could have made it an order, had merely requested a song on the strength of his father's friendship and of his own, he'd have wasted his time. Yet when in the mood the fellow would sing at dinner through every course 'Come ye Bacchanals', ranging from a high tenor to the lowest note the lyre can produce. The man was a bundle of inconsistencies. Often he'd run as if someone were after his blood; more often you'd think he was
servants, sometims ten. After talking in lordly tones about kings and princes, 'All I ask is a three-legged table,' he'd say, 'clean salt in a shell, and a coat, however coarse, to keep out the cold.' If you'd given a thousand pounds to that model of thrift and simplicity, it would have burnt a hole in his pocket in less than a week. He never went to bed until dawn, and then snored all day. He was the most contradictory creature that ever lived. Now someone may say 'What about you? Have you no faults?' Oh yes I but they're different and perhaps less
to be conscious of it?' 'I'm conscious but without a conscience,' said
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Transl. Copyright © Niall Rudd, 1973, 1979, 1997 - publ. Penguin Classics
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