Enough of this:  some other time we’ll see
If Satire is or is not poetry: 
Today I take the question, if ’tis just
That men like you should view it with distrust. 
Sulcius and Caprius promenade in force,
Each with his papers, virulently hoarse,
Bugbears to robbers both:  but he that’s true
And decent-living may defy the two. 
Say, you’re first cousin to that goodly pair
Caelius and Birrius, and their foibles share: 
No Sulcius nor yet Caprius here you see
In your unworthy servant:  why fear me? 
No books of mine on stall or counter stand,
To tempt Tigellius’ or some clammier hand,
Nor read I save to friends, and that when pressed,
Not to chance auditor or casual guest. 
Others are less fastidious:  some will air
Their last production in the public square: 
Some choose the bathroom, for the walls all round
Make the voice sweeter and improve the sound: 
Weak brains, to whom the question ne’er occurred
If what they do be vain, ill-timed, absurd. 
“But you give pain:  your habit is to bite,”
Rejoins the foe, “of sot deliberate spite.” 
Who broached that slander? of the men I know,
With whom I live, have any told you so? 
He who maligns an absent friend’s fair fame,
Who says no word for him when others blame,
Who courts a reckless laugh by random hits,
Just for the sake of ranking among wits,
Who feigns what he ne’er saw, a secret blabs,
Beware him, Roman! that man steals or stabs! 
Oft you may see three couches, four on each,
Where all are wincing under one man’s speech,
All, save the host:  his turn too comes at last,
When wine lets loose the humour shame held fast: 
And you, who hate malignity, can see
Nought here but pleasant talk, well-bred and free. 
I, if I chance in laughing vein to note
Rufillus’ civet and Gargonius’ goat,
Must I be toad or scorpion?  Look at home: 
Suppose Petillius’ theft, the talk of Rome,
Named in your presence, mark how yon defend
In your accustomed strain your absent friend: 
“Petillius? yes, I know him well:  in truth
We have been friends, companions, e’en from youth: 
A thousand times he’s served me, and I joy
That he can walk the streets without annoy: 
Yet ’tis a puzzle, I confess, to me
How from that same affair he got off free.” 
Here is the poison-bag of malice, here
The gall of fell detraction, pure and sheer: 
And these, I’swear, if man such pledge may give,
My pen and heart shall keep from, while I live.

But if I still seem personal and bold,
Perhaps you’ll pardon, when my story’s told. 
When my good father taught me to be good,
Scarecrows he took of living flesh and blood. 
Thus, if he warned me not to spend but spare
The moderate means I owe to his wise care,
’Twas, “See the life that son of Albius leads! 
Observe that Barrus, vilest of ill weeds!