U. What? are you mad, or do you mean to balk
My thirst for knowledge by this riddling talk?

T. O Laertiades! what I foreshow
To mortals, either will take place or no;
For ’tis the voice of Phoebus from his shrine
That speaks in me and makes my words divine.

U. Forgive my vehemence, and kindly state
The meaning of the fable you narrate.

T. When he, the Parthian’s dread, whose blood comes down
E’en from Aeneas’ veins, shall win renown
By land and sea, a marriage shall betide
Between Coranus, wight of courage tried,
And old Nasica’s daughter, tall and large,
Whose sire owes sums he never will discharge. 
The duteous son-in-law his will presents,
And begs the sire to study its contents: 
At length Nasica, having long demurred,
Takes it and reads it through without a word;
And when the whole is done, perceives in fine
That he and his are simply left—­to whine.

Suppose some freedman, or some crafty dame
Rules an old driveller, you may join their game: 
Say all that’s good of them to him, that they,
When your back’s turned, the like of you may say
This plan has merits; but ’tis better far
To take the fort itself, and end the war.

A shrewd old crone at Thebes (the fact occurred
When I was old) was thus by will interred: 
Her corpse was oiled all over, and her heir
Bore it to burial on his shoulders bare: 
He’d stuck to her while living; so she said
She’d give him, if she could, the slip when dead. 
Be cautious in attack; observe the mean,
And neither be too lukewarm, nor too keen. 
Much talk annoys the testy and morose,
But ’tis not well to be reserved and close. 
Act Davus in the drama:  droop your head,
And use the gestures of a man in dread. 
Be all attention:  if the wind is brisk,
Say, “Wrap that precious head up! run no risk!”
Push shouldering through a crowd, the way to clear
Before him; when he maunders, prick your ear. 
He craves for praise; administer the puff
Till, lifting up both hands, he cries “Enough.” 
But when, rewarded and released, at last
You gain the end of all your service past,
And, not in dreams but soberly awake,
Hear “One full quarter let Ulysses take,”
Say, once or twice, “And is good Dama dead? 
Where shall I find his like for heart and head?”
If possible, shed tears:  at least conceal
The tell-tale smiles that speak the joy you feel. 
Then, for the funeral:  with your hands untied,
Beware of erring upon meanness’ side: 
No; let your friend be handsomely interred,
And let the neighbourhood give you its good word. 
Should one of your co-heirs be old, and vexed
With an inveterate cough, approach him next: 
A house or lands he’d purchase that belong
To your estate:  they’re his for an old song. 
But Proserpine commands me; I must fly;
Her will is law; I wish you health; good-bye.