Читать книгу Yale Classics (Vol. 2) - Луций Анней Сенека - Страница 72

XXII.

Suffenus, he, dear Varus, whom, methinks, you know,

Has sense, a ready tongue to talk, a wit urbane,

And writes a world of verses, on my life no less.

Ten times a thousand he, believe me, ten or more,

Keeps fairly written; not on any palimpsest,

As often, enter'd, paper extra-fine, sheets new,

New every roller, red the strings, the parchment-case

Lead-rul'd, with even pumice all alike complete.

You read them: our choice spirit, our refin'd rare wit,

Suffenus, O no ditcher e'er appeared more rude,

No looby coarser; such a shock, a change is there.

How then resolve this puzzle? He the birthday-wit,

For so we thought him—keener yet, if aught is so—

Becomes a dunce more boorish e'en than hedge-born boor,

If e'er he faults on verses; yet in heart is then

Most happy, writing verses, happy past compare,

So sweet his own self, such a world at home finds he.

Friend, 'tis the common error; all alike are wrong,

Not one, but in some trifle you shall eye him true

Suffenus; each man bears from heaven the fault they send,

None sees within the wallet hung behind, our own.