TO FURIUS SATIRICALLY PRAISING HIS POVERTYFurius ! Nor chest, nor slaves can claim,
Bug, Spider, nor e'e n hearth aflame,
Yet thine a sire and step-dame who
Wi' tooth can ever flint-food chew!
So thou, and pleasant happy life
Lead wi' thy parents wooden wife.
Nor be this marvel: hale are all,
Well ye digest; no fears appal
For household-arsons, heavy ruin,
Plunderings impious, poison-brewin'
Or other parlous case forlorn.
Your frames are hard and dried like horn,
Or if more arid aught ye know
By suns and frosts and hunger-throe.
Then why not happy as thou'rt hale?
Sweat's strange to thee, spit fails, and fail
Phlegm and foul snivel from the nose.
Add cleanness that aye cleanlier shows
A bum than salt-pot cleanlier,
Nor ten times cack'st in total year,
And harder 'tis than pebble or bean
Which rubbed in hand or crumbled, e'en
On finger ne'er shall make unclean.
Such blessings (Furius !) such a prize
Never belittle nor despise;
Hundred sesterces seek no more
With wonted prayer—enow's thy store!