(HORACE, _anxious to get
away, walks fast one minute, halts the next, whispers something to his
attendant slave, and is bathed in perspiration all over.
away, walks fast one minute, halts the next, whispers something to his
attendant slave, and is bathed in perspiration all over.
World's Greatest Books - Volume 17 - Poetry and Drama
, when the first three books of the "Odes" appeared;
and that of the reflective and literary "Epistles," which include
the famous "Art of Poetry," and, with sundry official odes, belong
to his later years. Horatian "satire," it should be observed, does
not imply ferocious personal onslaughts, but a miscellany containing
good-humoured ridicule of types, and lively sketches of character and
incident. So varied a performance as satirist, lyrist, moralist and
critic, coupled with his vivid interest in mankind, help to account for
the appeal which Horace has made to all epochs, countries, and ranks.
Of the translations of Horace here given, some are by Prof. Wight Duff,
and have been specially made for this selection, whilst a few are by
Milton, Dryden, Cowper, and Francis.
_Horace and the Bore_
SCENE. --_Rome, on the Sacred Way. The poet is walking down the street,
composing some trifle, in a brown study, when a person, known
to him only by name, rushes up and seises his hand_.
BORE (_effusively_): How d'ye do, my dear fellow?
HORACE (_politely_): Nicely at present. I'm at your service, sir.
(HORACE _walks on, and as the_ BORE _keeps following, tries to choke
him off_. ) You don't want anything, do you?
BORE: You must make my acquaintance, I'm a savant.
HORACE: Then I'll think the more of you.
(HORACE, _anxious to get
away, walks fast one minute, halts the next, whispers something to his
attendant slave, and is bathed in perspiration all over. Then, quietly
to himself_) Lucky Bolanus, with your hot temper!
BORE (_whose chatter on things in general, and about the streets of
Rome in particular, has been received with dead silence_): You're
frightfully keen to be off. I've noticed it all along. But it's no
good. I'm going to stick to you right through. I'll escort you from
here to your destination.
HORACE (_deprecatingly_): No need for you to make such a detour.
(_Inventing fibs as he goes along_) There's someone I want to look
up--a person you don't know, on the other side of the river--yes, far
away--he's confined to bed--near Caesar's Park.
BORE: Oh, I've nothing to do, and I don't dislike exercise. I'll
follow you right there. (HORACE _is as crestfallen as a sulky donkey
when an extra heavy load is dumped upon its back. The_ BORE
_continues_) If I know myself, you'll not value Viscus more highly
as a friend, or Varius either; for who can write verses faster, and
more of them, than I can? Who's a greater master of deportment? As
for my singing, it's enough to make even Hermogenes jealous!
HORACE (_seizing the chance of interrupting_): Have you a mother--any
relatives to whom your health is of moment?
and that of the reflective and literary "Epistles," which include
the famous "Art of Poetry," and, with sundry official odes, belong
to his later years. Horatian "satire," it should be observed, does
not imply ferocious personal onslaughts, but a miscellany containing
good-humoured ridicule of types, and lively sketches of character and
incident. So varied a performance as satirist, lyrist, moralist and
critic, coupled with his vivid interest in mankind, help to account for
the appeal which Horace has made to all epochs, countries, and ranks.
Of the translations of Horace here given, some are by Prof. Wight Duff,
and have been specially made for this selection, whilst a few are by
Milton, Dryden, Cowper, and Francis.
_Horace and the Bore_
SCENE. --_Rome, on the Sacred Way. The poet is walking down the street,
composing some trifle, in a brown study, when a person, known
to him only by name, rushes up and seises his hand_.
BORE (_effusively_): How d'ye do, my dear fellow?
HORACE (_politely_): Nicely at present. I'm at your service, sir.
(HORACE _walks on, and as the_ BORE _keeps following, tries to choke
him off_. ) You don't want anything, do you?
BORE: You must make my acquaintance, I'm a savant.
HORACE: Then I'll think the more of you.
(HORACE, _anxious to get
away, walks fast one minute, halts the next, whispers something to his
attendant slave, and is bathed in perspiration all over. Then, quietly
to himself_) Lucky Bolanus, with your hot temper!
BORE (_whose chatter on things in general, and about the streets of
Rome in particular, has been received with dead silence_): You're
frightfully keen to be off. I've noticed it all along. But it's no
good. I'm going to stick to you right through. I'll escort you from
here to your destination.
HORACE (_deprecatingly_): No need for you to make such a detour.
(_Inventing fibs as he goes along_) There's someone I want to look
up--a person you don't know, on the other side of the river--yes, far
away--he's confined to bed--near Caesar's Park.
BORE: Oh, I've nothing to do, and I don't dislike exercise. I'll
follow you right there. (HORACE _is as crestfallen as a sulky donkey
when an extra heavy load is dumped upon its back. The_ BORE
_continues_) If I know myself, you'll not value Viscus more highly
as a friend, or Varius either; for who can write verses faster, and
more of them, than I can? Who's a greater master of deportment? As
for my singing, it's enough to make even Hermogenes jealous!
HORACE (_seizing the chance of interrupting_): Have you a mother--any
relatives to whom your health is of moment?
