To give what, else, he had not failed to lose.

Now were the dog-star’s sickly fervours o’er;

Earth, pinched with cold, her frozen livery wore;

The sick of quartan fevers ’gan to speak,

And fiercely blew the blasts of winter bleak,

Keeping the turbot fresh. The boatman flew

As if the sultry South corruption blew;

And now the lake, and now the hill he gains,

Where Alba, though in ruins, still maintains

The Trojan fire which, but for her, were lost,

And worships Vesta, though with less of cost.

The wondering crowd, that gathered to survey

The enormous fish and barred the fisher’s way,

Satiate at length retires; the gates unfold;

Murmuring, the excluded senators behold

The envied dainty enter. On the man

To ‘great Atrides’ pressed, and thus began:

‘This, for a private table far too great,

Accept. The day as festive celebrate.

Make haste to load your stomach and devour

A turbot destined for this happy hour.

I sought him not: he marked the toils I set,

And rushed, a willing victim, to my net.’

Was flattery e’er so rank? Yet He grows vain,

And his crest rises at the fulsome strain.

When to divine a mortal power we raise,

He credits all hyperboles of praise.

But when was joy unmixed? No dish is found

Capacious of the turbot’s ample round!

In this distress he calls the chiefs of state,

At once the objects of his scorn and hate,

In whose pale cheeks distrust and doubt appear,

And all a tyrant’s friendship breeds of fear.

Scarce was the loud Ligurian heard to say:

‘He sits, ’ere Pegasus was on his way;

Yes, the new bailiff of the affrighted town

(For what are Prefects more?) had snatched his gown

And rushed to council. From the ivory chair

He dealt out justice with no common care,

But yielded oft to those licentious times

And, when he could not punish, winked at crimes.

Then old, facetious Crispus tripped along,

Of gentle manners and persuasive tongue:

None fitter to advise the lord of all,

Had that pernicious pest, whom thus we call,

Allowed a friend to soothe his savage mood,

And give him counsel, wise at once and good.

But who shall dare this liberty to take

When, every word you hazard, life’s at stake,

Though but of stormy summers, showery springs?

For tyrants’ ears, alas! are ticklish things.

So did the good old man his tongue restrain,

Nor strove to stem the torrent’s force in vain.

Not one of those who, by no fears deterred,

Spoke the free soul and truth to life preferred,

He temporized. Thus fourscore summers fled,

Even in that court, securely o’er his head.

Next him appeared Acilius hurrying on,

Of equal age, and followed by his son

Who fell, unjustly fell, in early years,

A victim to the tyrant’s jealous fears.

But long ere this were hoary hairs become

A prodigy among the great at Rome: