Horace, Epistles 1.14

Vilice siluarum et mihi me reddentis agelli, quem tu fastidis habitatum quinque focis et quinque bonos solitum Variam dimittere patres, certemus spinas animone ego fortius an tu euellas agro, et melior sit Horatius an res. Me quamuis Lamiae pietas et cura moratur, fratrem maerentis, rapto de fratre dolentis insolabiliter, tamen istuc mens animusque fert et amat spatiis obstantia rumpere claustra. Rure ego uiuentem, tu dicis in urbe beatum; cui placet alterius, sua nimirum est odio sors, stultus uterque locum inmeritum causatur inique; in culpa est animus, qui se non effugit umquam. Tu mediastinus tacita prece rura petebas, nunc urbem et ludos et balnea uilicus optas; me constare mihi scis et discedere tristem, quandocumque trahunt inuisa negotia Romam. Non eadem miramur; eo disconuenit inter meque et te; nam quae deserta et inhospita tesqua credis, amoena uocat mecum qui sentit, et odit quae te pulchra putas. Fornix tibi et uncta popina incutiunt urbis desiderium, uideo, et quod angulus iste feret piper et tus ocius uua, nec uicina subest uinum praebere taberna quae possit tibi, nec meretrix tibicina, cuius ad strepitum salias terrae grauis; et tamen urges iampridem non tacta ligonibus arua bouemque disiunctum curas et strictis frondibus exples; addit opus pigro riuus, si decidit imber, multa mole docendus aprico parcere prato. Nunc age, quid nostrum concentum diuidat, audi. Quem tenues decuere togae nitidique capilli, quem scis immunem Cinarae placuisse rapaci, quem bibulum liquidi media de luce Falerni, cena breuis iuuat et prope riuum somnus in herba; nec lusisse pudet, sed non incidere ludum. Non istic obliquo oculo mea commoda quisquam limat, non odio obscuro morsuque uenenat; rident uicini glaebas et saxa mouentem. Cum seruis urbana diaria rodere mauis; horum tu in numerum uoto ruis, inuidet usum lignorum et pecoris tibi calo argutus et horti. Optat ephippia bos piger, optat arare caballus; quam scit uterque, libens, censebo, exerceat artem.

Good bailiff of my farm, that snug domain Which makes its master feel himself again, Which, though you sniff at it, could once support Five hearths, and send five statesmen to the court, Let's have a match in husbandry; we'll try Which can do weeding better, you or I, And see if Horace more repays the hand That clears him of his thistles, or his land. Though here I'm kept administering relief To my poor Lamia's broken-hearted grief For his lost brother, ne'ertheless my thought Flies to my woods, and counts the distance nought. You praise the townsman's, I the rustic's state: Admiring others' lots, our own we hate: Each blames the place he lives in: but the mind Is most in fault, which ne'er leaves self behind. A town-house drudge, for farms you used to sigh; Now towns and shows and baths are all your cry: But I'm consistent with myself: you know I grumble, when to Rome I'm forced to go. Truth is, our standards differ: what your taste Condemns, forsooth, as so much savage waste, The man who thinks with Horace thinks divine, And hates the things which you believe so fine. I know your secret: 'tis the cook-shop breeds That lively sense of what the country needs: You grieve because this little nook of mine Would bear Arabian spice as soon as wine; Because no tavern happens to be nigh Where you can go and tipple on the sly, No saucy flute-girl, at whose jigging sound You bring your feet down lumbering to the ground. And yet, methinks, you've plenty on your hands In breaking up these long unharrowed lands; The ox, unyoked and resting from the plough, Wants fodder, stripped from elm or poplar bough; You've work too at the river, when there's rain, As, but for a strong bank,'twould flood the plain. Now have a little patience, you shall see What makes the gulf between yourself and me: I, who once wore gay clothes and well-dressed hair, I, who, though poor, could please a greedy fair, I, who could sit from mid-day o'er Falern, Now like short meals and slumbers by the burn: No shame I deem it to have had my sport; The shame had been in frolics not cut short. There at my farm I fear no evil eye; No pickthank blights my crops as he goes by; My honest neighbours laugh to see me wield A heavy rake, or dibble my own field. Were wishes wings, you'd join my slaves in town, And share the rations that they swallow down; While that sharp footboy envies you the use Of what my garden, flocks, and woods produce. The horse would plough, the ox would draw the car. No; do the work you know, and tarry where you are.