Horace Replies To a Friend

(Quintin Horatius Flaccus, Roman Poet, 65 B.C.-8 A.D.) Yes, yes, I know what they say about me – know it well, too damn well, in fact: that I am short, squat, and overweight with a face even ugly toothless whores gladly look away from. What of it! Who needs them? I am not in want of those pleasures the flesh feeds on with such abandon, that leave it limp and exhausted, yet in the morning rises with the lion’s growling hunger. Rome, my friend, is like a banquet table, or brothel – more food and flesh than mouth or eye can take in; a challenge to one’s appetite and manhood! My gut and girth are ample proof! The emperor likes my verses and pays me well; I don’t complain. He calls me “his charming little man,” and is convinced my name – how it flatters me! – and his will outlive the gods. I’d like to think so. But he is piqued that I make so little mention of him in my verses, and he all but begs me to complete another scroll, one, he says, equal to my skill – and to my girth for thickness. As for Rome, the glare of marble smarts my eyes, and the din of streets and boisterous crowds have all but made me deaf! Enough of both! These Sabine hills are more to my liking and temperament. Augustus rules well, but politics has made him edgy, mistrustful. He should have more eyes – on his buttocks, preferably – the better to see how low some will stoop for his attention and favors! Now in my fifty-seventh year, country life suits me like no other, dear friend. My health holds up, and I am more inclined day by day to idleness than to anything ambitious. Like a plodding, tired-out battle horse, I am quite content these days to graze on greener pastures and, if the gods allow, even romp a bit, (the stallion in me still acts up) and not have to drag this aging, heavy-set chariot to pen and ink each day. Yes, yes, I know lethargy is anathema to a poet – but, please, spare me a well-meaning lecture. Tomorrow or some other day will see me up and spry, eager for work and bubbling with words like a mountain freshet. Until then let me soak in my indolence and let me indulge my appetites, few as they are, for Death has no concern for either, and it will have me, and you, soon enough, if not sooner.