Him that gives in to dice or lewd excess,
Who apes rich folks in equipage and dress,
Who meanly covets to increase his store,
And shrinks as meanly from the name of poor,
That man his patron, though on all those heads
Perhaps a worse offender, hates and dreads,
Or says to him what tender parents say,
Who’d have their children better men than they: 
“Don’t vie with me,” he says, and he says true;
“My wealth will bear the silly things I do;
Yours is a slender pittance at the best;
A wise man cuts his coat—­you know the rest.” 
Eutrapelus, whene’er a grudge he owed
To any, gave him garments a la mode;
Because, said he, the wretch will feel inspired
With new conceptions when he’s new attired;
He’ll sleep through half the day, let business go
For pleasure, teach a usurer’s cash to grow;
At last he’ll turn a fencer, or will trudge
Beside a cart, a market-gardener’s drudge.

Avoid all prying; what you’re told, keep back,
Though wine or anger put you on the rack;
Nor puff your own, nor slight your friend’s pursuits,
Nor court the Muses when he’d chase the brutes. 
’Twas thus the Theban brethren jarred, until
The harp that vexed the stern one became still. 
Amphion humoured his stern brother:  well,
Your friend speaks gently; do not you rebel: 
No; when he gives the summons, and prepares
To take the field with hounds, and darts, and snares,
Leave your dull Muse to sulkiness and sloth,
That both may feast on dainties earned by both. 
’Tis a true Roman pastime, and your frame
Will gain thereby, no less than your good name: 
Besides, you’re strong; in running you can match
The dogs, and kill the fiercest boar you catch: 
Who plays like you? you have but to appear
In Mars’s field to raise a general cheer: 
Remember too, you served a hard campaign,
When scarce past boyhood, in the wars of Spain,
Beneath his lead who brings our standards home,
And makes each nook of earth a prize for Rome. 
Just one thing more, lest still you should refuse
And show caprice that nothing can excuse: 
Safe as you are from doing aught unmeet,
You sometimes trifle at your father’s seat;
The Actian fight in miniature you play,
With boats for ships, your lake for Hadria’s bay,
Your brother for your foe, your slaves for crews,
And so you battle till you win or lose. 
Let your friend see you share his taste, he’ll vow
He never knew what sport was like till now.

Well, to proceed; beware, if there is room
For warning, what you mention, and to whom;
Avoid a ceaseless questioner; he burns
To tell the next he talks with what he learns;
Wide ears retain no secrets, and you know
You can’t get back a word you once let go.

Look round and round the man you recommend,
For yours will be the shame should he offend. 
Sometimes we’re duped; a protege dragged down
By his own fault must e’en be left to drown,
That you may help another known and tried,
And show yourself his champion if belied;
For when ’gainst him detraction forks her tongue,
Be sure she’ll treat you to the same ere long. 
No time for sleeping with a fire next door;
Neglect such things, they only blaze the more.