hou, and pleasant happy life 5
Lead wi' thy parent's wooden wife.
Nor this be marvel: hale are all,
Well ye digest; no fears appal
For household-arsons, heavy ruin,
Plunderings impious, poison-brewin' 10
Or other parlous case forlorn.
Your frames are hard and dried like horn,
Or if more arid aught ye know,
By suns and frosts and hunger-throe.
Then why not happy as thou'rt hale? 15
Sweat's strange to thee, spit fails, and fail
Phlegm and foul snivel from the nose.
Add cleanness that aye cleanlier shows
A bum than salt-pot cleanlier,
Nor ten times cack'st in total year, 20
And harder 'tis than pebble or bean
Which rubbed in hand or crumbled, e'en
On finger ne'er shall make unclean.
Such blessings (Furius!) such a prize
Never belittle nor despise; 25
Hundred sesterces seek no more
With wonted prayer--enow's thy store!

O Furius, who neither slaves, nor coffer, nor bug, nor spider, nor fire
hast, but hast both father and step-dame whose teeth can munch up even
flints,--thou livest finely with thy sire, and with thy sire's wood-carved
spouse. Nor need's amaze! for in good health are ye all, grandly ye digest,
naught fear ye, nor arson nor house-fall, thefts impious nor poison's
furtive cunning, nor aught of perilous happenings whatsoe'er. And ye have
bodies drier than horn (or than aught more arid still, if aught there be),
parched by sun, frost, and famine. Wherefore shouldst thou not be happy
with such weal. Sweat is a stranger to thee, absent also are saliva,
phlegm, and evil nose-snivel. Add to this cleanliness the thing that's
still more cleanly, that thy backside is purer than a salt-cellar, nor
cackst thou ten times in the total year, and then 'tis harder than beans
and pebbles; nay, 'tis such that if thou dost rub and crumble it in thy
hands, not a finger canst thou ever dirty. These goodly gifts and favours,
O Furius, spurn not nor think lightly of; and cease thy 'customed begging
for an hundred sesterces: for thou'rt blest enough!

XXIIII.

O qui flosculus es Iuventiorum,
Non horum modo, sed quot aut fuerunt
Aut posthac aliis erunt in annis,
Mallem divitias Midae dedisses
Isti, quoi neque servus est neque arca, 5
Quam sic te sineres ab illo amari.
'Qui? non est homo bellus?' inquies. e