The Satires, Epistles & Art of Poetry of Horace/Ep1-8

by Quintus Horatius Flaccus

VIII. To Celsus Albinovanus.

Celso gaudere.

EALTH to friend Celsus—so, good Muse, report—
Who holds the pen in Nero's little court!
If asked about me, say, I plan and plan,
'Yet live useless and unhappy man:

Sunstrokes have spared my olives, hail my vines;
No herd of mine in far-off pasture pines:
Yet ne'ertheless I suffer; hourly teased
Less by a body than a mind diseased,
No ear have I to hear, no heart to heed
The words of wisdom that might serve my need,
Frown on my doctors, with the friends am wroth
Who fain would rouse me from my fatal sloth,
Seek what has harmed me, shun what looks of use,
Town-bird at Tibur, and at Rome recluse.
Then ask him how his health is, how he fares,
How prospers with the prince and his confrères.
If he says Well, first tell him you rejoice,
Then add one little hint (but drop your voice),
"As Celsus bears his fortune well or ill,
So bear with Celsus his acquaintance will."