2.3.1.
‘You write so little, Horace, you barely trouble
The copyist four times a year, always unravelling
The web you’ve woven, angered with yourself because,
Despite lots of wine and sleep, nothing’s done to speak of.
Where will it end? Yet you left the Saturnalia
To come here, well then utter something worthy of your
Promise, start now! Nothing? No use blaming your pen,
Or thumping the innocent wall as insulting to gods
And poets. Yet you’d the look of one who promised
Great and splendid things, once free, in your warm villa.
Why pack Plato and Menander, and bring old friends
Like Eupolis and Archilochus along? Do you think
You can stifle envy by neglecting your powers?
You’ll be despised, wretch! You must shun the evil Siren
Indolence, or be ready to relinquish calmly
Whatever you’ve won in better days.’ Damasippus,
May the gods shave your beard for your good advice! How
Do you know me so well? ‘Ever since all my holdings
Crashed on Janus’ exchange, and ruined my business,
I’ve dealt for others. I used to love to search for bronze
In which wily Sisyphus once washed his feet, and spot
The works that were crudely carved or roughly cast:
I’d price some statue expertly at a hundred thousand:
I was the one who knew how to buy up gardens, fine
Houses, and turn a profit: so that at crowded auctions
They nicknamed me Mercury’s friend.’ I know, and so
I’m amazed you’ve been purged of that disorder. ‘Yes,
Amazing, a new obsession drove out the old, just as
A pain in the head or side’s replaced by a heart-ache, or as
Here, comatose patient turns boxer, and strikes the doctor.’