This is the first poem in the second book of Horace’s Satires. Horace himself gave it no title, but a useful modern title to indicate the topic is simply “On Satire.”
The translation is the handiwork of the admirable A. S. Kline, who’s made “open access, downloadable texts” of good modern English translations of a bunch of literature available “free for non-commercial reuse” here. There’s a full copyright statement if you have questions.
I’ve made the speakers clearer by using speech prefixes, and I’ve altered a few words in the last few verses to make Horace’s point clearer. Otherwise I’ve made only a few tiny changes to his text, mostly punctuation, though I’ve added some notes where appropriate.
[Satire 2.1, lines 1–23: |
|
| Horace: There are those who think my satire’s too sharp, that I | |
| Push the form beyond its proper limits. Others | |
| Think what I write is tame, that a thousand verses | |
| A day could be churned out just like mine. Trebatius, | Horace’s friend, a lawyer |
| Advise me what to do. | |
| Trebatius: ‘Rest.’ | |
| Horace: You mean I should write | |
| Nothing? | |
| Trebatius: ‘I do.’ | |
| Horace: Perish me,° if that wouldn’t be best: | let me die |
| But you know I can’t sleep. | |
| Trebatius: ‘Whoever needs sound sleep | |
| Should rub themselves with oil, swim the Tiber° thrice, | Rome’s river |
| Then, as evening falls, refresh themselves with wine. | |
| Or if love of scribbling possesses you, bravely | |
| Tell of invincible Caesar’s battles — you’ll win | |
| Many a prize for your pains.’ | |
| Horace: I wish I could, dear man, | |
| But I lack the power: not everyone can describe | |
| Lines of bristling lances,° Gauls dying, spears broken, | spears crowded together |
| Or a wounded Parthian slipping off his horse. | |
| Trebatius: ‘You could write of the man himself, brave and just, | |
| As wise Lucilius did of Scipio.’ | |
| Horace: I won’t fail | |
| If that chance occurs: but unless the moment’s right | |
| A Flaccus’° words won’t find Caesar’s ears attentive, | Horace’s family name |
| Stroke him wrongly, and he’ll lash out in self-defence. | |
| Trebatius: ‘It’s still wiser than wounding that joker Pantolabus | |
| With bitter verses, or that wastrel Nomentanus, | |
| Till all the unsung fear for themselves, and hate you.’ | |
[Satire 2.1, lines 24–46: |
|
| Horace: What then? When the warmth mounts to his drunken brain, | |
| And his eyes see double, Milonius likes to dance: | |
| Castor loves horses, his brother born from the same egg | |
| Loves boxing: a thousand men have a thousand different | |
| Pastimes. My joy’s imprisoning words in poetic metre, | |
| Like Lucilius, a better man than either of us. | |
| He used to entrust his secrets to his books, like faithful | |
| Friends, never seeking recourse elsewhere whether things | |
| Went well or badly: so the old man’s whole life lies open | |
| To view, as if it were depicted on a votive° tablet. | used for prayers |
| I’m his follower, Lucanian or Apulian, or both: | |
| Since colonists in Venusia° plough the border, | modern Venosa in Basilicata |
| Sent there, as the old tale goes, when the Samnites° | Rome’s enemies |
| Were expelled, so no enemy could attack Rome | |
| Across the gap if Apulian or Lucanian folk | |
| Threatened violent war. But my stylus° will never | pen |
| Harm a living soul, of my free will, only defend me, | |
| My blade’s sheathed: why would I try to draw it, when I’m | |
| Safe from wild attacks? O Jupiter, king and father, | |
| Let my weapon rest there, and let it rust away, | |
| Let no one injure me, a lover of peace! But he | |
| Who provokes me (better not touch, I cry!) will suffer, | |
| And his blemishes will be sung throughout the City. | |
[Satire 2.1, lines 47–86: |
|
| When he’s angry, Cervius threatens law and jury, | |
| Canidia the poison that finished off Albucius, | |
| Turius a hefty fine if he’s the judge in court. | |
| All use their strongest weapon to intimidate | |
| Those they fear: forceful Nature herself requires it: | |
| Doesn’t the wolf bare its fangs, the bull toss its horns: | |
| How, except by instinct? Trust an elderly mother | |
| To wastrel Scaeva: his pious hand won’t touch her: | |
| No surprise, wolves don’t use their paws, or oxen teeth: | |
| Honey mixed with fatal hemlock will carry her off! | |
| To be brief: whether a tranquil old age awaits me, | |
| Or dark-winged Death comes hovering round me, | |
| Rich, poor, in Rome, or banished perhaps, in exile, | |
| Whatever the nature of my life, I’ll write. | |
| Trebatius: ‘Lad, | |
| I fear for your life, lest one of your powerful | |
| Friends freeze you dead.’ | |
| Horace: Why? When Lucilius dared | |
| To scribble the first poems penned in a style like this, | |
| Stripping the shining surface in which men strut, | |
| Though foul inside, was Laelius troubled by his wit, | |
| Or Scipio who won his name at beaten Carthage? | |
| Did they grieve for wounded Metellus, Lupus buried | |
| By slanderous verses? Yet Lucilius satirised | |
| The leading citizens, the people tribe by tribe, | |
| Only truly favouring Virtue and her friends. | |
| Why, when good Scipio and wise, gentle Laelius, | |
| Retired to privacy from life’s crowded theatre, | |
| They’d talk nonsense with him, relaxing freely, | |
| While the cabbage boiled. Whatever I chance to be, | |
| However far, in rank or wit, below Lucilius, | |
| Envy, reluctantly, must admit I lived among | |
| Great men, and trying to bite on something soft | |
| She’ll sink her teeth in what’s solid. Or do you differ, | |
| Wise Trebatius? | |
| Trebatius: ‘No, I don’t disagree. But still | |
| Let me warn you to be careful, lest by chance | |
| You find trouble through ignorance of the sacred law. | |
| If a man trots out false verses, then there are rights° | legal rights |
| And courts of justice.’ | |
| Horace: Yes, if they are bad: but suppose | |
| They are good and praised by Caesar? If he’s snapped | |
| At one who deserves disgrace, he himself blameless? | |
| Trebatius: ‘The score will be wiped clean, you’ll be discharged.’ | |
[End of Book II Satire I] |