  IT chanced that I, the other day, Was sauntering up the Sacred Way, And musing, as my habit is, Some trivial random fantasies, When there comes rushing up a wight Whom only by his name I knew. “Ha! my dear fellow, how d’ye do?” Grasping my hand, he shouted. “Why, As times go, pretty well,” said I; “And you, I trust, can say the same.” But after me as still he came, “Sir, is there anything,” I cried, “You want of me?” “Oh,” he replied, “I’m just the man you ought to know: A scholar, author!” “Is it so? For this I’ll like you all the more!” Then, writhing to escape the bore, I’ll quicken now my pace, now stop, And in my servant’s ear let drop Some words; and all the while I feel Bathed in cold sweat from head to heel. “Oh, for a touch,” I moaned in pain, “Bolanus, of the madcap vein, To put this incubus to rout!” As he went chattering on about Whatever he describes or meets— The city’s growth, its splendour, size. “You’re dying to be off,” he cries (For all the while I’d been stock dumb); Let’s clearly understand each other; It’s no use making all this pother. My mind’s made up to stick by you; So where you go, there I go too.” “Don’t put yourself,” I answered, “pray, So very far out of your way. I’m on the road to see a friend Whom you don’t know, that’s near his end, Away beyond the Tiber far, Close by where CÆsar’s gardens are.” “I’ve nothing in the world to do, And what’s a paltry mile or two? I like it: so I’ll follow you!” Down dropped my ears on hearing this, Just like a vicious jackass’s, That’s loaded heavier than he likes, But off anew my torment strikes: “If well I know myself, you’ll end With making of me more a friend Than Viscus, ay, or Varius; for, Of verses, who can run off more, Or run them off at such a pace? Who dance with such distinguished grace? And as for singing, zounds!” says he, “Hermogenes might envy me!” Here was an opening to break in: “Have you a mother, father, kin, To whom your life is precious?” “None; I’ve closed the eyes of everyone.” Oh, happy they, I inly groan; Now I am left, and I alone. Now is the direful doom at hand, Which erst the Sabine beldam old, Shaking her magic urn, foretold In days when I was yet a boy: “Him shall no poison fell destroy, Nor hostile sword in shock of war, Nor gout, nor colic, nor catarrh. In fulness of time his thread Shall by a prate-apace be shred; So let him, when he’s twenty-one, If he be wise, all babblers shun.” Quintus Horatius Flaccus Horace. |
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