Classic Poem

You want me, Chaeremon, your courage to praise
Because you'ld be glad of an end to your days.
'Tis your poor broken pitchers this virtue create,
Your bugs, and thin blankets, and fireless grate,
Your bare truckle bedstead, and short scanty gown
Which is worn all the day and at night on you thrown.
You must be a marvellous hero indeed
To give up your vinegar and straw and black bread.

Come, suppose that your pillow is stuffed with soft wool,
And that over your couch close-clipped purple you pull,
While you have by your side the fair page who at dinner
Made each of your guests in his fancy a sinner.
How then would you wish to be Nestor thrice over,
And reasons for living each fresh day discover!
It's easy in trouble this world to despise;
The brave man is he who endures miseries.